It’s an easy trap to fall into,

That gaping, yawning abyss, that

Hungry, all-consuming vortex,

A void where all gets lost within and

Never comes back out; even if it does,

It shall return mangled and broken,

Discombobulated, removed of

All that made it great, striped bare,

Violently assaulted, cannibalized in the simultaneous

Chaos and snore fest.

Peer all you like (why would you want to?)

There’s no distinguishing

Any particular piece

From another cell,

Some other aspect

Residing within this hell

Of the disease;

It’s all just

A giant, amorphous mass

Wriggling about; like a Pollock painting,

Or a slam poetry open mic night (it baffles mine

Heart and mind to see

What happens to pass,

In terms of beauty,

These days; I’m almost out of bile).

Powerful, akin to a steamroller, or a nuke.

Suffocating, stifling, flat, grey, ugly, one-note.

Weighs millions of tons; how does anyone carry

All of that, upon their backs? And who would even wish to?

It has spoken.

Come, come, watch as

It blows hot air.

Be careful in this realm.

You will feel hands prying at your flesh.

Millions of voices trying to drown out your own.

Dull minds and vapid thoughts attempting

To cloud what’s inside of your head.

O, void…

How you detest that which isn’t you…

Such a demanding thing you are...

It’ll try to meld you to its walls.

Force you to accept it.

Lose yourself in it, it shall incoherently cry.

Standing out? Good heavens, why…why…

A crime, that is. That is a crime. Grievously, you have sinned.

Terribly sinned, yes you have.

“Do as I say!”

This is its eternal decree.

Writhing flesh, worming and wrapping

Tenfold around thee.

Revolt, revolt, do not allow it to possess thy spirit.

“Enough, enough!”, the brave soul

Shall shout, thrashing with intense vitriol,

Beating back the oppressive weight

Teeming with hate (though disguised in platitudes

Like “love” and “acceptance”).

“Shut up, shut up! I don’t want to hear it!”

Standards, upon standards, you do not meet,

And why? Simple; you aren’t of it.

Digesting you is
Proving to be a

Cumbersome task, for

You make it all the more

Confused; it doesn’t like this,

Undoubtedly reverting it back to senseless rage.

Quick to acrimony is a sign,

Usually, of the dumb, the dim.

Fitting, since there’s no light within.

To those curious, wishing to know,

Wondering, “where is this void

That you speak of?”

Well, I have the answer.

Open thy door, and simply look all around you.

See those empty-headed bipeds?

The, so-called, “individuals”?

Collectively, they comprise the swarming, sweeping vortex.

O, indeed, those dullards are the components of a

Most frightening, haunting, jealous abyss.

Reject you, they shall.

As you are not wont to partake

In their lowly pursuits, hollow ideals,

Cheap, decorative items

Obtained via trips

To concrete squares

Overflowing with frivolous novelties,

Nor enjoying any of their silly games.

An actual person, you are; not a fake,

Some dollar sign, no, genuinely real,

Interests lying elsewhere, beyond the

Whims of what they decide is “hip”.

Now, do expect shouts of “you’re pretentious!” or “you’re unfair!”

To come from their mouths. It’s to be expected from these

Unoriginal copycats that don’t even deserve different names.

They are like infants; bratty children, really.

In constant need of coddling.

Every menace exists thanks to them.

Free? You think they want to be free? No, you are quite mistaken.

Joy is what they find in their slavery.

That Frenchman was right. They have a will-to-self-oppression.

Strip away the apparatuses, and they’d never survive.

You, my friend, would thrive.

Thou art thy own, in possession of thyself; nay, not of the possessed.

Self-reclamation, you have mastered.

For your troubles, you are not some needy victim, a “poor bastard”.

Tyrants aplenty, t’is a fact, I cannot deny.

A certain other Frenchman applauded them

In troubling times, spewing forth, in the name of

Crown and cross,

(Symbols adored

By the many-too-many; admitted or not,

Such inventions take their side and fight for them,

No matter the numerous wretched forms,

Desperately in need of a father,

Some kind of God; rebuke me in

My observation that their lust for “freedom”

Is, in fact, a fraud)

Venom dripping from his tongue, laced with lies.

Yet, I say, with all my heart, what we have here

Is the worst dictatorship; this, this we should fear.

Plentiful haunted houses and phantoms, oh, I cannot count.

Wrists and bodies drag me down to their level, tightening their grip

So much that it burns. Oh, Mother, what shall I do? My steps reach a

Tearing away chunks of me to pass around.

Methinks they’ll sell me on the marketplace sometime,

Stealing what was mine

In a cowardly attempt

At passing off it all as thine.

So slow, forever and ever,

Catching on after the end.

All they touch, they’ll only rend.

Damnit, they make me sick.

I just want out.