Don’t Gogh

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Years of depression punctuated by obsessive creativity brought him closer to the inevitable. Alcohol became his chosen poison. Lacking the proper nutrition and suffering from frequent bouts of insomnia – it only propelled him deeper into the black abyss. The delusions which led to his self-mutilation only further supported the theory – he was mad, and he felt all alone. 

He had lost everything of value to him. There was an empty canvas on the easel, his colors, and tools. What would he paint?

Nothing. He was at his self-inflicted end. “The sadness will last forever,” were Vincent’s final words.

Inspired by Reena’s Exploration Challenge #131

Reblog – There are no rehearsals left, only curtain fall by Candice Louisa Daquin

This piece will take you to the depths of sorrow and despair. Oof! It’s certainly one that hit home for me!

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Originally published on Hijacked Amygdala 3/1/20

As it grows dark

As the corners of today’s page furl

Empty rooms, homes without windows, drugs without users, a body untouchable, growing cold

As if alight sparing flame

Never to relive

Nor consume nor nourish

This terrible emptiness

As she feels the pain that comes afterward

Inevitable. Old. Crushing. Familiar.

She wants to run to you

But you’re long gone, if ever present

Diminished and relinquished

Pouring medicine down the drain, till needful of no refreshment

Even beauty turns to stone

Even love robs itself destitute

As lovers hate the very thing that made them burn

The taste in her mouth of ashes

Written across her brow in heavy stroke

The cross, the lantern, the falsehood

This room loses light as she gradually declines

On her knees, so many years without touch; lies in place of comfort

Words growing smaller and smaller

A shadow book within a grace freshly dug, till she can see no more but the internal crush of loss

She was an addictive personality who couldn’t get out of her mould, it stuck like jello, that tendency toward

Melancholy and suicide

If you find her dead you can bet one of her vices is responsible

When she meets people who have not soaked their souls in cigarettes and vodka

Feeling more in the daytime bar than ever something clean and starched

Broken girl parts

Snapped in half before they knew how to stand up

Hers is a sickness, dances in pearls around her neck till pulled tight

Wanting the abyss of psychedelic music and dream of hashish

Intoxicate the pain, numb further urge to destroy what’s left

And push yourself inside me, join the sorrow dot by dot till we both burst

Such is the loveliness of sex in the fulment of grief

Replacing one pain with another small death

The telephone doesn’t ring

She doesn’t call or receive these days

The silence as palpable as the knife she carves her arms into ribbons with

They’ve danced this dance before

There are no rehearsals left, just curtain fall

Think of how it felt, long ago

Before the end, in the middle, lost now

The heaviness of her wanting is blunted by knowing

These people have only their irrevocable actions

Sparring with one another, the blood of first strike hitting white snow in masterpiece

Crimson against a hundred promises, a new form of murder

Sitting, watching herself go through the motions

Good girl who kisses her loved one, tucks in the bed sheets tight

Dreaming of broken glass down her throat, three grey birds and a fingerful of coke

The rage of impotence across flayed landscapes

That flesh and sinew long hung to cure, speaks nothing

Doesn’t forget the rebuke, even as forgiveness is yoked, chain on soft skin

To every ending

Time ticks down without mercy, and if she lives to your age

Just like you, setting the tableaux of your life, there’ll be nothing to say

But the horror of silence before deafening rain

Then she picks up her existing and leaves

Soon it seems, she was never there, just a handful of misspoken words and rage

Drinking clouds, the truth, spares the speaker

She has a generation of distillers and eyes that carry pain as if it were their child

Tonight she won’t be meeting you, she’ll keep on driving

There’s a drop off somewhere, she knows, a fateful road where the turn is sharp

And unexpected

Even for the most familiar driver

It takes a kind of control

She never ever possessed.

Reaching Bottom

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Darkness descends,
and crushing loneliness
becomes my cage.

Fine is just perfect…
fucked up
insecure
neurotic and
emotional.

The future,
just a feeling
put on hold.
Nothing will ever
turn out finer…

Fucked up
insecure
neurotic and
emotional but
recovered.

The biology demons
are strong.
Hope becomes
an illusion,
a sinister lie.
One entrenched deep
in every nook
of me with every
slide black.

It’s happiness
not easily found.
This
my undeniable
state.
Trapped in my head,
a life controlled
not by me,
watching this
play out indiscriminately.
Controlling very little,
only breaking down.
Further
and faster
to my end.

The cost of living is expensive.

 

**This is not my current state. Don’t worry.

Ill-Made

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She was damaged by circumstance
against her will.

The patterns of dysfunction became habits of life.
She claimed her internal baggage to carry onward.

Life was always challenging.
The rewards were seemingly unattainable.

Happiness was strived for but just out of reach.
A bitter, lonely end was her destiny.

And inevitably, she ceased to exist.

Going Down

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The light slowly leaving.

Dolor creeping into this blank space in my head.

Swallowed up in this ever-deepening gray haze minimizing my liveliness.

Pitch-blackness, my old friend, immobilizing me again.

No energy, desire, motivation or strength.

This thick sadness creates a loneliness where hope can’t creep in.

Courage oozes away, one drop after another of life leaking to somewhere it can’t return from.

Goals left to die in the waves of this depression.

Silent tears pitching between wet, heavy sobs.

An aching all-encompassing deep pain leaving invisible scars.

Severe despondency and dejection, I doubt life can go on.

It’s a reality in my head not worth living.

Escape from that which continually pulls me down feels impossible, this devastating extreme of the opposite of happy.

It feels like I’m stolen from me.

I feel over.