??I remember the bitter taste of the pills rammed down our young throats.
Our peers were getting thrills from ecstasy, whilst we were in agony,
the ironic mirroring did not slip past me.
The angels in white coats found their calling in saving our fragile perceptions.
El diablo, and his henchman diagnosis, dealt in our deception.
Deprived of experiences due to our protection, we found positive futures were an exception.
Receiving our meds as though receiving communion, the body of christ in the shape of a valium.
The screaming of mania still haunts my unconscious; my dreams still filled with girls’ fierce resistance of food. Their frail organs that stopped pumping too soon, before they could win their battle with their nemesis.
In sleep I still kiss their thinning hair and beg them to repair their bodies.
To allow the sweet nurture of nourishment to embrace their interior.
Alas, they would still feel inferior to fellow girls at death’s door,
who had given in, so self assured, they will soon be perfect.
I could never forget the times I spent, eyes squeezed shut trying to repent.
Though my memories serve me better
than the death sentence served cold on the silver platter to these waifs.
Author: Amphetamin
The Battle
The sheets and blankets of thunder clap,
The inky debris like militia led towards the black,
Clawing up the skyline.
Desperate to join the battle of light and dark,
The hounds of hell bark and the angels hark,
It is Evil versus the Divine.
I watch this battle curiously,
Which side to support I question furiously.
Their fight reflecting my own war of right and wrong.
The angel’s song is beauty personified,
But the delicious dark shadows tempting me causes the divide
In my mind.
Temptaion, if given in,
Is one of the deadly sins.
I understand, but I cannot fight it every time.
War Crimes
Their faces distorted,
Masks contorted to fit the shrunken bones.
The final humiliation to be so alone
And trapped in a cell of arrogance.
The senseless deaths occuring
From bravely spurning questions
Asked not from curiosity,
But animosity.
How did these doctors not bleed
From their believed stigmata,
Surely they bartered with the devil
For their consciences to be destroyed.
Betrayers of their trade,
The Pontius Pilots with their blades
And their ideals of perfection.
Correction of heritage should never be a suggestion,
What sacrilige!
To be hated for your skin, your kin,
Your face, your race,
Your mind.
To be made blind to turn eyes blue.
A hue so common, yet why so desired?
Are we not all wired differently
So why force us into a box?
It shocks us to remember the Reich,
To think bigotry is rife,
Yet we may control our lives,
So why,
Do we not stand up for what is right?
Piano Keys
Your stomach lining’s burning
As the pages keep on turning
In your book of self-destruct.
The never ending cycle
Twists and turns
Whilst you stifle your screams aimed at your ego.
You are your only foe for the world still adores
Every inch of your perfection.
What a shame that the reflection you see is so distorted.
It has been reported that
You so elegantly purge, with those graceful fingers
To feel the surge of power you wish you possessed.
Those same fingers touched the ebony keys,
So very lightly, as though not touching them at all;
You would play such haunting melodies that lulled us to sleep.
Now those fingers slowly creep down you swan-like neck,
Not allowing even a speck of nutrition to enter your gut.
The bile arising seems to cut at your tender mouth,
As your hurt and pain comes flooding out,
And once again you are cleansed.
St Jude
St Jude, oh set me free. I’m no lost soul, I still believe.
These problems stem from people’s lack of faith in me,
Not vice versa. And I will push further until another saint is re-assigned.
The only crime I’ve committed is jading my eyes.
As a multiple of sighs erupt I realize I’m sounding pretentious.
This is not my intentions, nor means of my path to forgiveness,
Oh I cannot confess anymore.
As I fall to the floor, I notice the faces are pleased;
I am another sacrifice brought to my knees,
Their proof they can sniff out a sinner, like winners at a race.
It’s written, as a psalm, all over their faces.
My rosary snaps as it’s thrust from my neck,
A move I am sure more done for effect.
And the beads separate and hide.
I watch them slide into cracks and disappear into the black,
And imagine Satan greeting them with a hungry manner.