Parallel Universe Patrolling Force.
And my fear,
isn't something that can be shared.
I defaced them.
Unmasked, I have no defence.
No one my behalf to attest that I'm not out of my head.
If I close my eyes,
I can see the sharp paintbrush,
coming to paint me red.
A masterpiece that is dead.
Plug my ears,
I can hear me screaming and feel the tears running down my cheeks.
I swear I'm not being cheeky
The snowflakes died down and so did my chattering teeth.
Angel wings on either side of my arms.
This is just an experience that only the deceased have experienced.
A cut to the vein,
dropping like wine that's fine, but should not be at such a age, on my plate.
Used to be a lightweight.
Carrying the bodybag wouldn't have required a bodybuilder,
it must've been a piece of cake.
I stopped eating.
Is everyone turning blind?
To physical signs?
I get that no one gets my mentality.
My mind is seen as one of a kind, though I'm generally invisible to human eyes.
If I say I'm mentally unstable it must mean I'm fine.
The opposite of a lie is not always the truth.
Covering my hide with a hood.
Do I have to whisper in their minds?
Of how their blood line is bleeding and flattening.
No monitor is needed to show the vitals,
the patient has gone beyond survival.
What's most important is revival.
Which no one wants to spend their precious time on.
A priceless life gone.
Not a victim,
just an innocent criminal.
Spending days in a cell,
writing about where I've dwelled.
Asking the mirror on the wall,
who has the most,
beautiful heart of them all.
Million glass shards pierce my chest.
I think I got my answer, and eternal rest.
Do I know who I am.
What part have I played in fate's plan ?
Guess I'm supposed to be a building.
The architecture of the architect's mind.
What is trauma care?
When I'm still traumatized to this day.
Even in the afterlife,
reminiscing how I was slain.
Who likes to cross the other side?
And live as they die.
When my expectations surmounted those expected of reality.
That's when I started living in a fantasy unlike anything ever created before.
What do I have to show that I once lived?
Not even a gravestone or bib.
When handwriting becomes fancy, it's called calligraphy.
Living in a world of my dreams, has always been my dream.
Floating between paradise and purgatory, in a land combining heaven and hell and my imagining.
The monsters under my bed don't see me snore.
My body never washed up ashore.
The same goes for everybody I've known.
This version of earth is no more.
Melancholic is a language spoken by those nostalgic of what had been bucolic.
Entire new solar systems, stars, galaxies and new celestial tokens.
Welcome to the Parallel Universe Patrolling Force.
Who else wants to get enrolled?