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Dead Like Me/Before the Phoenix Fire Breathes

#VocalNPM

By Brent HorlingPublished 5 years ago 4 min read
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I could be a stranger like I was yesterday. I've often found myself zoning out into the corner. The window is a perfect picture of what's out there. The glass of the window pane is a comfort we take for granted. A sour taste in the air is a good indication that the poison is sweet. If you give yourself too much credit, you lose a valuable lesson. Who would ever want to be dead like me?

As the sky above becomes brittle and begins to fray, we're left unknowingly in the backwash as its victims. As the ground below ceases in density, and all that we know feeds a black hole, all we leave behind are the toys of our youth. A young man isn't more than an old man, but he is vital to the process. A stranger makes for better conversation when compared to your mother. I've buried treasure inside my walls; inside my head. I haven't the slightest idea as to the difference between real life and the world unsaid.

Misspoken memories feed the beast of formidable loneliness. Where have all my friends gone when I needed them to defend? The battle between my insides and the worms has suddenly subsided. I tend to think I'm afraid even though I haven't began to think about jumping. The heights are nice when you watch without internal hurting. But, the wind told me the end is coming and it'll be time to descend. I called her a fool for being the forever wondering.

Brightly, I'm blinded by the oncoming waves of today. Up ahead is a little girl whose been eating dirtlings and leaves. Stabbed with a white-hot knife of an aftershock caused from a guilty bird's arbitrary lifestyle in being heard; I'm still working towards a reason to outweigh my useless wants for personal disarray. A net catches dust in the hopes of rebuilding another lost family out of the dead skin cells it consists. Heroes aren't born with the knowing that they have purpose. Villains were once victims who were left unheard.

These ghosts tell me that there isn't an afterlife, but a life after life. To think that we die was a fool's fear in the first place. We teach our children all that we know even when it's wrong. They learn the lessons of an elder because a warning label was torn off. Fire burns and melts the excess skin away. I've never wanted to breathe these flames of uncertainty for I thought I had it all planned. A lost notebook of diary entries tells the story of no one who has lost their story, and who has lost the finishing chance.

Virus like entities invade my space and infect my dreams. What was it like to stand above me before I outgrew the trees? It may look as if I'm short, but I've hit rock bottom and all you see are my leaves. When all the liars have told their final lie the rope will pull tight around their necks and the truth will be the only thing that's felt. A daydream can mean a lot of things when you fall in love with a boy who is just as high as you. What I thought was love was only the reminder that I'll never be more than this body to those whom are planted on solid ground. A whisper follows the assault of my forged out proof, and I'm stuck in the backlash of yesterday's repose.

I've said a thousand different times that I forfeit this pride yet I'm still here to tell you about it. Quite an outward way you took to hide when I do it in plain sight. Drenched in the wake of morning dew, we all lay there like bikes of a summer's childhood. The skyline bends to the will of our eyes, and we see the horizon burst with the glow of the eternal sun. Chasing the moon as it will always do, our warmth counts the rotations around their living daughter. Sinking into the grass we leave a depression from the intensity left from our beings. The worms are full of the others, and I am left to wait in decay.

Just like I was yesterday, I've become another stranger. A corner I've reconstructed into my home has become my zone for comfort. I watch as everyone around moves and I remain still in place. This perfect picture has morphed into the very idea that haunts me dearly. These walls surround my very core without fail of isolation in this grieving. The sweet taste of flowers fill my mouth, causing a jolt of pain to dress me sourly. I've been given praise over the way my guilt and shame hit the page, and I never learned to fly because of it. Guess being dead is all I'll remain to be; until my soul like phoenix cycle rebirths and repeats.

sad poetry
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About the Creator

Brent Horling

I'm a free spirit, who is usually lost in free thought. As life goes on and I age closer to my death, I've come to realize that these free thoughts seem to be all I truly have. And that's okay.

https://Instagram.com/user/soullikephoenixcycle

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