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The Irony of Melancholy
Realism is the real pessimism.
Revisiting my worst moments
Have been the best times of my life.
Breeze whisking and air sodden,
He left the house downtrodden,
The first and last girl he felt
Had his heart in her talons of waste,
Burst it in a sadistic and soulless haste.
Now when he meets beautiful girls he's disgusted.
That they hold capable that which she did in bad taste.
Exploded this object which he gave so dear,
And ensured it would not again be displaced.
This scene runs me by, before sleep each night;
My first heart and heartbreak.
I'll never forgive her for forcing my hand.
The stained sink made my chest so tight,
Nights I would sit, in contemplation.
Irrational, yes, impactful, yes
Any sharp object that could create a mess;
Tempted freedom, release.
Wasn't just her, the murder of family
Is what I keep close to my lungs.
But in memories of why it occurred,
She invades them all.
Composure regained, daytime again.
Spend hours painting that smile.
It's ordered and regular to wave and feign
The acceptable forms of self.
But when night visits once again,
The mind returns to thoughts askew.
Her beautiful face, scrunched too close to tearing.
Hair black as midnight of earths least travelled paths.
It starts not so bad, descends far to quick.
The beauty I still see, repulsive to the screams still blaring.
Masochist! No. Realist at best.
Reflection gives cause for good sorrow,
And the order imposed that I have to show,
Is good practice for today and tomorrow.
Lust replaces love in the easiest of times,
It will substitute for the forseeable end.
When the date hits and the clock finally chimes,
This world will see me no more.
Not just her, no chance in your hell.
Depravity can take the prize.
But in my mind, the one to blame
Disguises her horrid face,
In the beauty of desire.
Innocence. Excuse for the cause?
Not one I will take so willingly.
Let me bundle back up what has spilled out now,
Before I break such rigid social laws.
You reading this,
Think not of me crazy,
Just broken in parts of the brain.
My scab will start to heal;
In vain.
Why is it ironic?
Melancholy is the most personal,
Hard-hitting of nights.
Starter of fights
And creator of despise.
Hard for you, for me too
And all on this earth blue.
Though each struggle will, in time, accrue
It makes your problems taboo.
