Here I sit, on this throne I have made. In this kingdom I have conquered for myself. With my demons I have gathered here together, to satisfy my pleasures. Shrouded in darkness, a darkness spilling out of me. My demons have chained my hands and feet to this throne. I am unable to leave my kingdom and it grows ever darker. It hardens my heart and darkens me, turns me to pale the pale of death. I am but forgotten, imprisoned and destroyed, there is no hope that I could ever escape. Regardless of the growth of my faith, the evil only grows in turn and the battle ever wages inside of me. My mental and physical well being pay the price for this, my spirit lies in ruins. God does not reach down to rescue me, even in my pleas, even in my vain and ill fated attempts to escape. My existence grows more than pointless, my life lives to torture my soul. It has grown to be a painful disease or slowly drowning, or perhaps it is like being caged with a lion. It is nothing but anguish and terror to me.
The only words my lips bear are poetry, vain poetry of my tragic state. Under the disguise, a visage, under a name and a mask to hide my identity. I speak and people marvel, but it does me no service. It does not ease my suffering, it does not bend God's ear to my anguish. My poetic voice is matched by my words of wrath and anger. I slowly slip into a maddening affair, whispering hate and love. Whispering my self-loathing, my hatred for what I am. I entertain my demons, and they mock me. This is not a kingdom, it is a prison and this is not a throne, it is a rack. I am unable to make my life any better, and God does not simply destroy me. He only encumbers me with words and does not ease my hardship. My words are stricken with poetry, I am bound not to speak plainly of my struggles. I am cursed to speak in mysteries and metaphors.
I cannot be who I want to be, I must be this tragic existence. This alter ego that disguises myself, who writes poetically. These supposedly beautiful and sorrowful words. This plagued man, imprisoned soul, this broken spirit. Lost somewhere in the sea of corruption and pain. With the company of suffering and death, demons and hate.
The only words my lips bear are poetry, vain poetry of my tragic state. Under the disguise, a visage, under a name and a mask to hide my identity. I speak and people marvel, but it does me no service. It does not ease my suffering, it does not bend God's ear to my anguish. My poetic voice is matched by my words of wrath and anger. I slowly slip into a maddening affair, whispering hate and love. Whispering my self-loathing, my hatred for what I am. I entertain my demons, and they mock me. This is not a kingdom, it is a prison and this is not a throne, it is a rack. I am unable to make my life any better, and God does not simply destroy me. He only encumbers me with words and does not ease my hardship. My words are stricken with poetry, I am bound not to speak plainly of my struggles. I am cursed to speak in mysteries and metaphors.
I cannot be who I want to be, I must be this tragic existence. This alter ego that disguises myself, who writes poetically. These supposedly beautiful and sorrowful words. This plagued man, imprisoned soul, this broken spirit. Lost somewhere in the sea of corruption and pain. With the company of suffering and death, demons and hate.
