They wipe their muddy feet
on the WELCOME mat at the door.
Money in their pockets;
guns in their minds.
Secrets as bullets
waiting to kiss someone’s insides.
Tailored suits and fresh crimson roses
Hedonistic intentions kept in place (for now)
by tight-fitting waistcoats.
Expensive white smiles
smouldering holes in soft sofas:
even if they noticed, they wouldn’t care.
This is the way the world works the world works the world works
this is the way the world works oh em gee!
This little girl has a story:
She grew up in a dark world,
But was surrounded by pinks
And soft pastel colours,
Barbie dolls and tea cup sets,
Clothes for princesses,
A tiara to top it off.
It was the perfect facade…
Pink reminded her of blood –
And pastel was the colour of happiness she hated…
Barbies were her mother,
And tea cups symbols of oppression.
Princess clothing – a mocking gesture to the world,
And a tiara – the final broken halo of goodness.
She cast her spells
(curses – that sort of thing)
And sprinkled her glitter.
(cyanide – looked like weird snow!)
She baked everyone cookies
(filled with rat poison)
and even gave her neighbours gifts!
(bombs – strong enough to damage, but not kill)
She was the sweetest girl,
She was happy too!
Can we blame her then
For living happily?
My mind lives for the silence, my demons survive off it. Only when my surroundings are quieter than my mind, does the evil emerge. It is in the silences that my mind is given the chance to wander; the chance to devour my courage and chew on my consciousness. It is in the silences that my deepest and darkest fears emerge to the surface – like diseased slime.
It’s in these silences that I am truly myself; because only the darkness can see me, and darkness is blind. The masks I wear sink and the pretenses that I bear dissipate. It leaves me feeling exposed, naked. My only companions are the demons I have suppressed during the noise of life; but in the silence I cannot control them. They run ominously and recklessly through the hollow corridors of my consciousness. They scream and shout. Their haunted and twisted rants echo through my entire being, shaking my existence from the core.
In these moments I am paralysed as if I’m a bare seed in the black gloved hands of an omnipotent phantasm of my own creation; a beast so powerful, so dark it dare not show itself to others. Not because it is fearful, but because my darkness is most harmful to me, not others.
The only way to beat the blackness is to succumb to it; to let it take over every inch of my being. That’s the only way I can still convince myself I am in control, because I have the choice to give in. And through the darkness can I only find peace… Without the darkness there wouldn’t be hope and without hope there wouldn’t be goodness.
How then can I be blamed for my sins? It is the darkness. The black gloves of power make me do it. I have no choice.