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Suicidal Piety's Poetry


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#1
suicidalpiety

suicidalpiety

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What is an expression that can make creatures hate without words? What is it about Night that can make friends turn into lovers? Why must day be where we hide our fears, yet the night greats our tears. In a morbid state of unconscious and deliberate unknowing we pass from the birth of inquisition to hate and ludicrous at the thought of martyrdom. What are we a martyr for now? The old religion, which, in a state of utter loyalty and perfect annoyance has been destroyed by modern creations of despicable control called religion. Our love for conformity gives delicate moments that paint the sky with lightning so erratically placed that it fascinates. Tumbling fear corrodes the midnight wonder. Electrons passing from land to the kingdom above which I shall never know. Bulging jugular waiting for the knife. Sweet blood splatters in a disconcerting pattern flickered across the wall, glowing as the fire fly crushed between two delicate bricks, forced into the pattern by desolate minds needing control. Purposefully scented candle wax forms the sacred signs, cooled in the holy water.

What shape is it?
The Son?
The heir?

He loves us enough to give us death through spreading disease categorized by humans. The photographs of the past, greyed with envy and yellowed with deceit, they cry for the past that never deterred them from lying. So much incredulous pain that dares to be mocked by white toothed smiles, ignoring the crimson tears offered by the thief he has married. Thief of chastity and honour, yet martyr for her cause.

And now I have brought you in full circle to a martyr, but merely skipping the unnecessary impossibilities of intellectual quests for truth outside honesty. Outside mysticism and into the depths of uninformed science. The murderer of all released minds’ lover, mysticism that dips in and out of reality, making miracles of which the believers of magic are sceptic.

Will I ever know? The cockroach chewing through the page similar to lust that nibbles at the decayed flesh in my mind, slaughtered by inconceivable lies and truth and every foul and grotesque battle and last warrior ever uttered from pallid lips. Ever constantly reminds me of my enslavement to the written word, lost somewhere in Renaissance and Baroque and Rembrandt, hidden in Wordsworth and Romanticism, laughing from the eyes of the common observer to provide a quest in a time when heroism is a fantasy read in numerable books. Why? Because we long for it, whether to be the damsel or the damned, we yearn for some form of romantic fairy tales in modern life where swords are decorations upon the poorly lit wall and chivalry remains decimated.

#2
suicidalpiety

suicidalpiety

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There is nothing left but the dark Eternal Wasteland. And so immaculate it is that I would rarely guess at its properties. A ranging world littered with corpses and ashes. Now is the end?

Friendship is a curious thing, run by those who believe they can gain the most by knowing the most. And thus, in similar apparel to love, friendship is not about loyalty but popularity. All things decay in time’s brilliant plan. This egotistical parade is one of them that I shall be glad to see as dust in the Wasteland.


As for reincarnation, I pray I am forbidden from returning or if there is a Hell, I can wander day in and day out there. This archaic place, full of passionate flames would be far less painful than this world, so full of scorn and hate. Emotions so powerful I wonder if humans still fully comprehend their qualities. But still, forbidden from entering such a realm again would be a dream within a dream within a dream. I would wander listlessly throughout the stars, gaining mystical knowledge and comprehending their properties, feeling the whimsical warmth of the sun and dancing through the milky way, in love with the creation.


The Eternal Wasteland, still blowing liquid fire from revolution, keeps us bound to our own unlikely purpose: to die. Perhaps all this nothing which in its own right is a lot of something is merely a foil for our purpose as we like to call it. Maybe our only purpose and equal fate is death. We are meant to die. Nothing more and certainly nothing less. However, our purpose may then indeed be how long we can postpone this event, that moment; so that when we are upon our death beds, we never truly feel as though we’ve accomplished our purpose but have lead a fruitless life. We reach for immortality and are so ready to accept the suffering in order to maintain it. Perhaps, in our own lust filled way, this is why we create such beautiful creatures as Vampires. They are immortal, but must pay what we believe is a heavy price. Nothing is free. So why then continue the battle to live if the end is inevitably as unfulfilling as the beginning? Why, because we must… because we don’t believe that is our purpose. We are afraid to.


Even in the dreariness, it seems sorrow cannot stop the rain. Oh, how I love the rain! Such a sublime beauty in a world full of sublime chaos. And just as the rain falls Helter Skelter across the silvery grass, mayhem falls splitter splatter on each life. Though, to some extent, this is not true because of the few crystalline lives untouched by grief. The glowing perfected people. You know of whom I speak… who I mean. There’s always one we are secretly jealous of because their life seems exquisitely easier, of fairy-tale material, or perfectly slower. Sometimes I wonder if this green envy is nothing more than the ivy on the brick house - just as green and fertile - but we may remove it at will, cut it, spray it - but we will always remember it. And often it is put there deliberately by ourselves or someone else.


Is nothing accidental? Or is all life coincidence? This thought I have never dwelled upon because it is simply a pointless one. Do we really need to know? Revolutionary ideas are born in theatre or in literature that has little impact because they change nothing globally has a significant impact that changes each human life, adding discord in the fragile minds of Our people.


We will run away together, you and I. My Love.
We will go wherever you please: to the shimmering sands of Egypt or the bonny banks of Loch Lomond.
I love you. Yes you.
You are my Chosen.
My life commitment.
Whatever it takes to Escape.
Let us run away together.
Forever.
Immortally Gods of Fidelity.

#3
ToTheWounded

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My words would pale in comparison to yours, so all I will say is beautifully done.

#4
suicidalpiety

suicidalpiety

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Memorable Rhapsody
by Suicidal Piety

I shall leave this world.
Never to fly with
wings unfurled.

I have left the sea.
Never to drift away
with thee.

I have forsaken the trees.
Never to listen to
restless leaves.

I will not tend the embers.
Never to love what the
flame remembers.

I have fallen into eternal sleep
Never to gaze at the stars
dreamers keep.

I have been pricked by a thorn.
Never to feel anything
but torn.

I shall die before being free.
Never to be more than
a memory.

#5
suicidalpiety

suicidalpiety

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I doodled this during tutoring class a year ago. I've always been partial to it, though it means nothing, in reality. Do what you like with it. Decide what you must. All you're required to do is read it.


Primary Colour

Cat scratches
and scared rose petals
defining a
cherry moment
of euphoria.
red ink spilt
on a crimson cover filled
with scarlet cries
and
bloody tears.

#6
Lonelygirlinblack

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I like!

#7
DarkAdvisor

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seems to me (just seems*) that you went for the mysterious theme, but you unlike alot of people managed to pull it off.

#8
suicidalpiety

suicidalpiety

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seems to me (just seems*) that you went for the mysterious theme, but you unlike alot of people managed to pull it off.

To be honest, there wasn't much I was going for. It just appeared and that's what there is. This is what remains.

#9
suicidalpiety

suicidalpiety

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White lilies painted crimson, maroon and black to suit their prophetic fates. Dances with the night oft' prove fatal. Will dawn come only for me? Is Winter truly the death or only the rest of maturation? What is love more than a tingly feeling? A fantasy world where women are swept off their feet and men are hailed as heroes. Heroes that claim a throne from tyrany and incest, yet surround it with corpses of those before him. An endless cascaded cycle of death, tears and lust. The open grave looms ahead concealing the razor blade: the Ultimate Sacrifice. Sweet sorrows touch the flesh, watch it ripple o'er time and give moments a human shape to see out of, and feel from. To feel the unnecessary pain he causes, to under-stand the torment of each breath we draw, to know how it hurts to smile or laugh, or even cry now.

#10
Weeping_Angel

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You are an extremely talented individual!!!
I hope to see more of your work soon.

Peace...

#11
bleedinglife

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i agree, beautiful.

#12
painful_tears

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your writing is so beautiful i cried when i read the first two...i hope you continue to post because you should share your wonderful work with people




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