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Scrapbook: Death of the Romantic/Anarchy

Scrapbook: Death of the Romantic/Anarchy

Death of the Romantic

He had a heart of gold.
It was melted and sold along with his soul.
Abandoned and taken for granted,
He only needed for someone to understand him.

He had a beautiful mind,
One that love couldn't find.
Where his guilt hides and darkness resides,
An anxiety that became a part of his life.

An angst that he couldn’t be free of.
A soldier of hate that couldn’t be loved,
Yet beloved by those who thought him worthwhile,
They saw him smile and never thought his conscience vile.

Filled with sin was the life he was given.
He prayed to be freed from the guilt-ridden prison he lived in,
Thinking of the revolver spinning and the relief it would give him.
Having given free will, God prayed he wouldn’t give in.

A living paradox.
A divine being trapped between a pair of locks,
Life and death.
Both unlocked the moment he took his first breath.

A reflection lost in a broken mirror.
A blood-stained mosaic painted with doubt and fear.
A distorted portrait of who he could be.
A shattered image of who he used to be.

“Can you help put me back together, and love me?
You're not perfect, but neither am I. We're perfect for each other. Baby, trust me.”
It doesn't matter anymore, for he's dead.
Maybe this really is the end.

The end.



Anarchy. Anxiety.
Purge the evil from inside of me,
And the potential for what I could be.
Don’t cry for me.

Don’t cry.

Kill your emotions.
They leave you static while life stays in motion.
Drowning you in tear-filled oceans that lose your focus.
Your vision’s precision is nothing more than hopeless.

Life was never meant to be a game that you could cheat in.
Existence is but a misplaced meaning,
Defined only by your heart beating,
Defeating your reasons to continue breathing.

Because staying alive is too painful.
I’m nothing more than a fallen angel.
As long as I’m alive they won’t know what to do with me.
When I die, speechless for my eulogy.

Don’t lie.

Finger-fuck the semi-automatic until she climaxes.
Tilt the world on its axis.
I’m past the point of passive aggression.
Point the pistol to my temple, apply pressure, and yell “FUCK DEPRESSION.”

Taken advantage of after learning how to love,
Dance with the devil disguised as an angel from above,
Bring you down to my level.
Welcome to hell, babe.

Dark and faceless.
The embodiment of what angst is,
Dictating the masses what to riot against,
Yet failing to kill the pain within so immense.

Have you ever looked into dying eyes as his life inside dries?
No? Just look into mines.
If there’s anything that my nightmares have taught me, it’s that I’m ready to die.
The perfect pairing to match what’s already inside.

Don’t die.


.illusive. for Our Attachments
Photo Cred: Jason Azanza (@nosvj)

Originally shot for Fashion Moves Forward before it got all introspective. Whoops.

Scrapbook: Detachment

Scrapbook: Detachment

Introducing: gold.

Introducing: gold.