The Twisted Tales

Can you see your own darkness?

Psst! You!

Yeah mate, I'm talking to you.

Interesting, isn't it, how the bobbies and chappies like to stick us with their lies about what we are meant to be. Funny though, how the bobbies must be madder than us to do what they do for so little pay, and how mad it is for the chappies to stick their nose up your arse to get a sniff of what's going on inside your house. Why do we do what we do mate? We both know what we are, and we both know we won't hurt nobody who doesn't deserve it, so why do the bobbies watch us so closely to see if we would fit in better with white then colour?

'cuz we know mate, we know, what goes on between our ears, and apparently our arsecheeks, because we know we are mad. What's more nuts mate? A witch hunt for the insane to hide your own madness; or a born again, self-confessed whacko like we are. It's the way your brain starts to melt when the anger comes on, dripping down your face like molten candy as the 'ole world starts to shift. You see what's really behind the chappie's fence, as you see how they treat their kids, dog and partner. But oh no, we are mad for seeing this. Their life just past the 'ole fence is perfect, and gilded with gold – approved by all. You're the one who's mad for thinking that the kiddo is on drugs for problems easily prevented.

Now I'm not telling you we believe in aliens, or that Brexit will mean we 'ave no trees, but mate – I'm mad and so are you. But are we madder for being mad, or more for trying to hide it? You know the amount of drugs we pop just to resemble what they want? What's more mad is how they have infected our thoughts to make us desire to be like them too – suppressing the real to hold their façade. My wish used to be to follow my dreams and fall in love, but all that is now replaced by this bizarre desire to polish off all my personality traits, so I gleam until I shine.

I don't like many people mate. I don't like many bathrooms either. But you see, in all this I'm the one to blame. I'm the one who has to thank their lucky stars their job understands that this is a "medical condition" that I need to use my own Johnson if I want to park a load. I have to feel constantly reliant on a small pill every day to prevent my mind from melting as I crawl up into a small ball. I have to feel like I owe people a favour if they deal with me for any period of time. And you know what's worse? The bit they hate more then the rest of it doesn't even have a pill or a cure – yeah, you get a spot of the anger, the ole itchies, then there's nothing they can do with ya because you have to know how to control yourself.

If you slip up, then oh boy will the chappies find a way to tell the bobbies and then you are more screwed then if you did a porno. So, you are doing what I have been doing, staying in the 'ole house to avoid their questions. But the questions keep coming, and coming, like they are trying to prove that you are mad so they can get the bobbies on ya – even when you are minding your own business. Your house is your fortress, and according to the chappies you aint allowed to stay in there too long. Makes a chappie wonder, it does. What'cha doing in your 'ole place that long fella? Don't'cha know youre meant to be presented to society every day, so we can check you're okay?

So... I'm gonna give into the madness, the monster behind my eyes that lurks in my chest. I want to feel real at least once before the bobbies take me to be dressed up in white and fed pills till the day I die. Before I become their puppet I want to see what power I have they were holding from me. I will be their king until they shackle me and cut my wings. The chappies will run scared until I'm put back into my cage of their making.