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The Toxic Fired Up Mind of Mine.

by Jasmine Porter 3 months ago in surreal poetry
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A Dark Poem.

The Toxic Fired Up Mind of Mine.
Photo by Zoltan Tasi on Unsplash

I don't like my mind anymore, I don't know what to do. I don't know where Jazzy went but she isn't inside there anymore. I don't know if she's dead or alive but my mind is so scary I can't stop it. It's a very fast carousel, with other people on it and I can't get off it, other people are taking over and I am a hostage in my own mind. It's a mental gore show with a lot of mayhem and a massacre on a 24/7 parade show. They hold me down, they show me the TV with my fears on them, and the voices follow me everywhere reminding me to be reminiscent of the enemy in everyone. Ammunition runs thin but I am a sharpshooter with the little I have left I will take good care of it like a dirty Versace shirt for $2 at an old OP shop. The secrets I keep are that I am a port key to a world that no one else can see, trust me they exist they always have, and I can see them and hear them. I see two worlds and communicate in between my mental wit has cursed my spirit into a conduit. They are not liking, I'm not in denial I swear I just am not willing to take the pain inversions of a pill so I will turn a blind eye and focus on the world of protection and stay indoors, someone brings me holy water as a make do for the unholy demons we hold in my sacred bubble, I will SPF it with holy water as a means to keep them at bay. I don't want to be saved, they will follow me and they will find me, they will kill me. If you find the message on the contrary within, that's what my mind is like inside it jumps around and is everywhere I can't keep up even with the freshest kicks. No tranquillity, no equilibrium, I need to run, I need to run away. I need to go. I think soon this version of Jasmine will be dead and I think a new person will take over, someone that has no past trauma. She will be fine inside playing a soothing remedy while playing in the roses. Just like the past hasn't happened, it will not leave a bruise after the doses of past stress that wake up right beside me in my own bed.

When it takes over she knows what is coming, she knows we will take her to hell and back. Her eyes can't deny what they've seen and we will remind her brain of everywhere she has been and seen and oh how where the pain has been and what it will make you see. The suffering while she stays in the calming wavelength of society. She's never been oblivious. We will take out our weapons and dance to The Ballad of Mona Lisa, she will look beautiful. Beat up canvas kicks, a white dress ready to the aesthetic bleed. Take out the AK and let's party, let's transfer fear, the beat down heartbeats you've had for the past 25. It's not payback, it will be a climatic loss of life to the wack of every beat of that beat down heartache like no rhythm heard before on the ballroom in a disguised cemetery. This is the only place where the misunderstood will be alive in society, coming together in a different type of conversation.

Welcome to our show.

This is the time where we can dance in the blood and brains being splattered all over our bodies, the rain that is the enemy our mind tells. The fictional stories we believe while we ballroom dance the Bolero to Beethoven's, violin concerto. Our sad empty carcasses will be alive in the horror show tonight. The judgements in people's mouths will be silenced while sitting in a decapitated state on the edge of my machete.

Someone, please lobotomise the demons from my mind, they are too real. They corrupt me, they feed the hate, and they are the reason why there is a poverty of purity and happiness. It can be too heavy, they weigh me down. Amity Affliction feels me when the Anchors speak to me in serpent tongue while I drown upside down not knowing what way is the surface of reality.

My disturbed mind serenades an idea of a runaway, like Bonnie and Clyde, run the bloody red lights, let's go through the cops flashing lights. We will make the perfect getaway, with blood and body leftovers, how will the story end? With our lips locked into a well-kept secret, eyes turning black let's look back one last time before we make love to our future criminal enterprise. Let's share our blood and call it a pact, we need to know the bond we share is in a connection to the future bond in our visionary cart, to death do us part, right?

I miss the old mind, the one that was medicated less, that wasn't one big mess with a never-ending written book, I am possessed, with a wired pen through my skin while I have to write down a thousand trains of thoughts to one ghost town station, in a town... How did the town become a forgotten vacation space? Where you hear the crackling laughter of past happiness in the voices of old versions of you, like an old-time slide show. Just promise you won't blink it might pass you by, just so the grim reaper of your past sorrows will creep up to you to rip your heart out of your chest while having a grimacing smile to ask "can I borrow?".

Stand in line, hug me and smile while you shove a knife in my back. I dare you. But you better pray I won't be back again to reach the shadow of you, because I will lick my blood with the blade of your betrayal and smile while looking you dead in the eye with a kings poker face of our time we spent together dancing in the darkness while our shadows came alive at the moment that should have been on the cover of Forbes time magazine. The adrenalin is reaching the climax I can feel it coming and you will too soon just differently, for what's to come. I will clean the blade before it comes back to bite you. Look up at me with a big white smile I feel you owe me that much, while the colour in your eyes is on the contrary.

I didnt mean the story to get so dark, maybe the fairytale I live in the mist in my mind still exists maybe I need to board a plane to find out. The connection is a bind between a vision of motivation, sorry couldn't concentrate on the show. Too busy making love to the tragedy of events, when I do want to be there while the old fashioned Kitana caresses my hair.

surreal poetry

About the author

Jasmine Porter

25, Xbox, Memes, Fitness, Music, Writing. Owner of an AmStaffxRedNosePitt, called Assassin.

Studying, BachOf PsychSci+Crim.

Love reading, watching and learning new things.



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