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Array
(
[sid] => 68700
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => tis my blood spilt under the name of god
[time] => 2004-10-24 18:51:37
[hometext] => it's actually about how i hate my brother
[bodytext] => Why is it I feel so hopeless? Why is it that the weight of this burden on my heart is almost unbearable? Not listening to what they speak, yet letting their words be the ignition for the fire of hate I hold for them deep within myself. My blood flows like death within my veins, an anger uncontrollable as their mouths move and whatever they speak of only adding to the desire of death. My eyes rolling back in my head facing the heavens I ask for a release - Losing myself in the moment, utter disgust boiling within. Why is it you put me here with this, my Lord? Always turning to the questions I have as an explanation for what it is I am becoming. You think when nothing is wrong I would be content? Yet the most mundane existence is like possession from the devil, telling me to hate and suspect the worse and for my heart to never be at a state of content...And I listen to him because I know he's supposed to do evil and it doesn't upset me when he does what it is he was spawned to do. So why is it that god must do these things I conceive as evil? But I don't really believe that it is god or the devil, but a representation of a biblical nature about the war between good and evil within ourselves and the decisions we make there of. I force these evils upon myself.....the suffering is good for me, what hasn't managed to claim my life can only make me stronger. Then where is this strength when my days of suffering are plentiful? Are they there with me when I awake to face what it is I hate and resent? I can't listen to their lives any longer I wish not only of my death but their own... my blood is theirs they share this life but don't live with the same conflictions. They don't look at me with eyes of unpurist thoughts as I do them. So it is I cut myself, watch the blood fall out of me like the release I wanted so badly. I have the scars that people wear on their hearts on my arms, chest and wrists - as white as their convictions. Self-inflicted madness. A madness without reason. Self-inflictions without madness. Reason without self.... Self without purpose. [comments] => 2 [counter] => 166 [topic] => 13 [informant] => surge_joebot [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 10 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => DarkPoetry )
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