My rights aren't mine.
My feelings aren't mine.
They're determined
by the bittersweetness
of anxiety and depression.

   Molten into shards of
gold and plated by
shards of onyx,
they entrap the very
essence of happiness,
an emotion that's been
so delicately
dessicated from the
veins coursing
through my body,
and the swell of my heart.

    The ***** pumps blood,
but it is
molten and
deformed into
pure gold,
plated by
shards of onyx.

Those ruptures
wouldn't depart.
They were permanent,
yet obsolete to that
of my future, but their
pull shall never leave me.

   My happiness was cracked,
corrupted by the indiscretions
of nature and the depressive
reprieve of sorrow.

My heart wasn't mine
any longer.

   The gold, the onyx
twisted the melancholy
of my already fractured soul,
tying the compounds of my
heart into the mix, holding
it captive.

There was no getting
it back, for I had to live with
those scars all to myself.

   Others couldn't see
the streams and fractures
or punctures of
onyx
and of
gold.

They were mine to bare.

My rights, my mind,
my joy wasn't mine any
longer.

   Such pleasures
were at the disposal of
the fractured state of my being,
and I wouldn't see them
again, for nothing
could be what it once was.

Had I mentioned his divinity before?
maybe I had, maybe you skimmed,
maybe you forgot,
but I certainly
could not forget.

It was far too engraved
in both the sea of my mind,
and the currents of my words.

Divinity, a term that could be associated
with a greater power,
even something that could be
transcendental,
but divinity to him, to me,
was something far deeper than that.

It was something far more toxic,
something far more sinister
that I couldn’t control,
something that tugged
on my muscles,
bones, joints, and flesh
even when I tried to pull away.

But, his divinity won.
He won and ever so often
I promoted my self-awareness,
my emulating nature to succeed
as a way to win for once,
but I was against a force
greater than that of
the armies of noble,
vicious kings.

He won through one look,
one harsh gaze
that broke through the
cracks of my heart,
plunging its way into
the caverns of my *****,
and it made a home to
nurture the bitterness
and hostility of his
actions and words.

They all sliced at the swell of
my heart,
and even the flesh of
my body,
but divinity healed them.
He healed them even
when he created them.

The words seeped from my lips,
the pleas of admiration
and the pleas of fear
melded into one brew,
crafting a potent mix
that controlled me.

The formidable brew
originated from him,
and it was there that
his instincts were born.
It was there that those instincts
decided to mesh themselves
into my life.
It was there that he
decided that his
divinity was for him
and for me.

His divinity clawed its way
at the epitome of both
my soul, and the duality
of my faithfulness and
self-awareness,
yet I was exempt from both
freedoms
and burdens.

Divine.
He was so divine in my eyes,
but he controlled me in the eyes
of others.
His words were far too
harsh for the
epithets of my soul, yet
I listened and let them
label me.

His hold over me
was divine.

His words were
divine with a power
of control
I'd never fallen under before.

It's what I knew.
It's what I understood.
He was my culture,
his words were my cultivation,
and his abuse was my apology,
striving for that of which
I couldn't control,
striving for that of a false dream
that never would happen.

It couldn't,
not when the fiber of my being
offered up no escape.
Divinity was his, and
I was his divinity.

The ink of my pen pressed firmly
into the parchment,
staining it with an idea,
with a thought that was
of my own mind.

The parchment was rough,
withered at the ends from the
lack of neglect that I had
spared it upon it during the years it
retained its fine age in my attic,
collecting the very dust that
bargained with time.

The pen, the parchment were the tools
I had at my disposal,
they were the tools I relied
on during a daily basis.
Such basic items to another
person would seem insignificant,
but were they?
Not to me,
but that was the price of it all.
The price of being mistaken
as something I wasn't.
There was a price of humility
that came with a passion,
that came with the dying
art form of prose, poetry, and fiction.

Those art forms
that express that of our
deepest desires,
concerns, and
problems.
Written words can express parallels
in the way that speech may not be
sufficient in doing.

That's where my humility,
my passion, and
my work originate from.

They stake a claim
on the spontaneity of words,
of sentences,
and the nuances of the
language that can convey
just what I forge them to.

Oh, how these kind acts of pleasure,
and these kind acts of movement
bring me both joy and sorrow.

The pen on the parchment brings me
into the realm of both reality and fiction,
giving me the ability to speak as freely as
I want to.

Chained down to such a society,
such a group of people around me
who entice me to strive in such a way
that contributes to the thoughts
of the inner dwellings of my mind,
lapping them up and laying them out
on the old, dusty, and fine aged parchment.

These thoughts are private,
and yet, they are very public.
They are for those who wish to listen.
They are for those who wish to ignore.
They are both a pleasure and a pain.

They are from me,
and they are given to you.
They are humility, and
they are pride.
They are local, and
they are foreign;
they are to be used with
the utmost intention of
fluid emotionality and
cordial necessity.