It all started with what seemed like a cheap imitation of a 1920's vaudeville act. Rihanna's overplayed Umbrella blared in the background which made me feel lost in that strip bar, almost as lost as that contemporary song finding itself in an old setting full of performers wearing bright costumes lit by colors that all bled in a puddle of brown. A drag queen came out lipsynching a song he, obviously, had no idea the words to backed up by  midgets dressed as rodeo clowns who didn't help with improving what was turning out to be a freak show .

when there is nothing left to burn you must set yourself on fire.

Your Ex-Lover is Dead - Stars

I've watched you staring at a vista that is a deviation from your otherwise empty world. Finally free of whatever associated you with the rest of us has given you an air of arrogance. Feigned confidence ,if I may add. So you walk around, rather condescendingly, thinking you're above us, that you're better than us. You are so convinced that they released you because you're well. I find it funny how you have never considered the idea that they might have let you go because they gave up on you. The chance of you getting better is hopeless as you are pathetic. We watch you try to put back the pieces of what could loosely be called your life when even a blind man could see that such attempt is as futile as trying to make whole the powders of pulverized glass. Oh yes, we watch you. In sheer amazement that some of us could only shake our heads.

But still we let you….try. Nobody dares to stop you probably because nobody wants to bother. We all know you're headed for a very devastating failure. Yet nobody cares because, considering the state you're in, how could you get any more broken? You have led yourself to believe that you will get well because you are breathing. You're misled by the notion that as long as you're alive, there is hope. But that is only one side of the coin you are looking at.  If you flip it you will see that you are alive only because death is not a strong enough arnica to heal you.

You are what many would call a sad case. A proof that fate has inadvertently drawn some of us to walk this earth like zombies. Nonchalant. Passive. Unfeeling. Stare at the battle scars that have marred your body and remember the countless times life has bastardized it, beyond all repair, beyond all recognition and accept the fact that you're no better than us. I have seen you cower in your sad little corner. Your incessant feebly stifled sobs render me sleepless.

 If you take a good look around, you will realize that life presents you an alternative. It might not be the best but it is a fresh breath from the pathetic excuse of an existence you're dwelling in.

Give up. Insanity isnt so bad if you come to think of it. When you get used to it. Or you could go on with your hurried, yet futile attempt to convince yourself that you're well.

And die trying.

In an empty graveyard, I saw her sitting on a rusted bench seemingly waiting for something. Her dress was frayed and her nails were chipped and dirty, looking like she's spent hours digging the ground. But what was most noticeable about her were the eyes that held a gaze of someone whose hope was tested over and over again, has weathered and ultimately flatlined. The world that night was dark, almost as dark as the coal black sky above her. Yet I could see her eyes because they held a look that flashed of long-held agony.

She started to feel the cuts on her wrists with the same hands that wounded them. While these slits signal a gesture of cowardly surrendering, she saw this as an acceptance of what life has cast upon her. A painful yet graceful exit from the world that didn't want her. She is now basking in the measureless understanding that she was never meant to live. And it is with the final resignation to her destiny that she calmly awaited her death.

She felt every drop of blood that escaped from her .. embracing every pain so as to numb the part of her that was most aching-- her heart that still holds a tempestuous scream like that of a banshee's.

Fate has been cruel to her. And she, now, is more convinced than ever that it has a fixation for bizarre and sensational entertainments as it manipulated things to take on a farcical turn. The skies opened to pave way for the moon's beam illuminating the lines on her face, each holding a story of misery and despair. She looked up at the moon and wallowed in its glow of sardonic mockery while the stars watched what resembled to be a deathly theatrical spectacle and wept for her. Their soft silent sobs blended with the wind's howl which became the song that beckoned her to dance along its allegorical rhythm of death. Each step brought with it memories of a woman, who as a child, learned many things littles ones shouldn't know. The moon shone arrogantly still, bringing flashbacks of her life. A life that, I could only conclude, was molded by a very sadistic prankster. Every memory was remembered with screams that tore at her insides, reverberating across the empty burial ground, culminating in slow baited breaths. She used whatever strength in her left and made a move to go to the deeply excavated ground which, in her mind, was her final resting place.

But fate, until this time, was still cruel to her so she dropped on the ground, just inches before her grave and died with her eyes open.

last night i saw a lonely star

sitting on an unlit corner of the firmament,

putting up the middle finger at the ones that shone brightly.