Teacups and Pens

Pyromaniac

Sometimes when I get lonely,

I set fires.

Not like a pyromaniac,

but just inside my soul.

Just to give it some feeling,

to let it know it’s not hallow.

That it’s not completely

and utterly

alone.

And I think that’s the point,

isn’t it?

Just some sort of feeling

to know you aren’t

some emotionless monster

who mindless walks, talks, and eats

and can’t seem to feel?

But sometimes I burn

to rid myself of my emotions.

To burn away the loneliness,

to see the ashes and burns

along the sides of my once

so powerful controllers over my mind.

To feel the black crust

of the aftermath of the fire,

to know it’s gone.

But it’s never really gone.

It never really goes away.

But the fires cause a temporary pain killer.

Something to ease your mind now,

manipulate your wallet and destroy you later.

But who cares about the future.

All we really want is the now, right?

Who cares if the fire burns away

my very being that allows me

to walk, talk, and eat?

Who cares if I have to suffer thirty years

of utter misery.

At least I burned those nasty little buggers

that were sitting inside my soul,

eating me up, right?

But the thing that no one takes the time to notice,

is the bugs never existed.

Never have, never did.

They were all manufactured into our minds

and persuaded us with bittersweet lies

that that’s what we need to do.

Get rid of those hypothetical bugs now,

suffer those consequences later.

So yes,

I burn fires inside of me.

Or at least I tell myself I do.

I tell myself I want to.

But I do it in such a metaphorical sense,

I do it through reading.

I burn myself through books.

Oh, the irony.

I burn myself through music.

With every beat,

the pulse of the volume

slowly takes over my actions

and irresistibly, my body moves to the beat.

I burn myself through writing.

The thoughts sprint to my hand,

and furiously record everything

scorching through my heart.

I burn myself through breathing.

With one breath,

I feel new air filling my lungs,

new opportunity screaming through,

telling me to push through.

I don’t have time or patience,

for that matter,

to mess around with things

I know will only poison me now,

later, and forever after.

So, no, I will not take a drag

with you

because it’s fun.

I’d rather be enveloped in a new novel,

or writing a poem,

or dancing feverishly to a new song.

Doing something I know wishes only to

encourage me to succeed,

rather than push me down to the depths

of something so sinister,

it’s apparently fun.