Deep-diving into the culprits of my self-deprecation, "Discount Shakespeare" showcases all 50 of my poems, originally posted on Twitter, which I had written from my high school years to this day (whenever this gets published, I guess).
Teeming with...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Discount Shakespeare An anthology of musings Poetry by luxsick
━━━ ❦ ━━━
A grip on passion's facade
Separation is always coupled with something scalding. The searing constants, then, are coupled with hatred, paralleled with uncertainty and failure — to speak, to do, to feel — and mirrored by an enigmatic poison, seeping into my vision unbeknownst to my here, my now.
Entailed in separation is a departure from the vault of my emotions, taking flight on blind distances imposed by forces unknown, forces foreign to my being, forces cruel to my existence; the forefront of a formidable evil's onslaught onto my sanity's breaking point. I fall victim to the endless cycle of resistance — keeping a positive mindset, as how the world embeds it, verbatim, in my thinking circuits — as I believe that it's okay to use my endless tries until my heart's content.
I try, and try. I try until resistance turns into delusion. I try for as long as I know that I have something to hold on to, the same thing that feeds my fire to write, to learn, to communicate.
And above all,
I try until the same 3 letters are the only subjects left in my picture show. I try until I'm left unaware that my reason for doing, for living, for creating, is gone.
Passion can be a trick. Sometimes, I even see it as separation's Plan B. For one, I lose it. For another, being drained of it only takes mere seconds while the journey of getting it back, as it's rightfully mine, would take an eternity.
I'm surrounded by firm believers that my passion is my ticket to this worthwhile trip, the gatekeeper to progress — a fully-functioning soul, a perfectly stable grip. In fact, I believe it's been decoded by a few self-help authors, "Passion, to each their own, is a remedy for mistakes, a resolution for plans gone astray."
How can something so powerful, then, turn from concrete to abstract upon being held hostage by separation? Why must it be a puppet of the inevitable and unexpected when such things as bright as dreams could draw their own paths for passion?
Separation is always coupled with something scalding, and within such pairing, are pinpricks of thieves. Robbers of directions gone haywire and visions gone hazy. They assume the position of one almighty, one that's done everything, enough to be given such a godly delusion.
What they don't know is that I, too, can believe.
The roads I've chosen are surely infested with thieves, deprived of their knowledge about the one thing they could never steal.
I believe that I possess a power, you see. I call it language.
