Choosing Mental Illness As A Virtue

Choosing Mental Illness As A Virtue

Crimson paints the blank canvas as the razor-sharp blade cuts into the skin.
The pain turns the frown on his face into a grin.
Twenty-five open wounds occupy the arm, one for each and every sin.
People question him and wonder where the fuck he’s been
because the real him is trapped in internal darkness somewhere within.
 His thoughts are chaotic, circling around his mind in a frantic spin.
Peace and solitude are his true desires he asks God for but he doesn’t know when
God will stop fucking him up even more with hard rights straight to the chin.
He knows he’s a failure every time he looks into his parent’s eyes and sees their chagrin.
Two can play at that game, he’s still made they removed his foreskin
and try to fatten him up because they feel he is too thin.

A valley deep in the woods behind his house is where he goes to escape the horrors of his life.
He never goes alone, always taking along with him a knife
Just in case he gets the urge to put an end to his inner strife.
However, a cooler head always prevails when he thinks about his future wife.
So graceful and beautiful, he can’t picture himself without her.
She worries for him, especially when he openly expresses his desires for his death to occur.
Out here, along in the wild, he feels no need to flee.
The darkness and self-pity inside of him turns to glee.
Rabbits fornicating in the meadow and fish lying eggs in the river are the key
that prevents him from hanging a noose up from a tree.
Flowers blossoming during the summer,
then being overrun with dandelions brings enjoyment to his decaying soul.

Being alone late at night is where he does his best work.
It’s a career that hasn’t paid off yet but is much more fulfilling than being a clerk.
When the curtain falls on his life, the legacy he leaves behind will be all of his artwork.
He creates masterpiece after masterpiece like fucking clockwork.
Viewing his work always leaves him with a smirk,
while others read it, and finish it feeling rather irked.
His soul gave birth to this marvelous gift.
His blood soaks it the venom that leaves everyone feeling pissed.
The pain in his heart should not be dismissed.
All it longs for is a hug and a kiss,
followed by an unexpected plot twist,
where he takes out his knife and slits his fucking wrists.

A genius?  Maybe but not for him to decide.
That will be decided by all who stand by him at his bedside
as he takes his final breaths moments before he dies.
No shame in losing an unwinnable war, at least he fucking tried.
He took all the shit Satan threw at him in stride.
His only regrets being he never got to fuck a chick in the backside,
and he goes out without the world knowing of the turmoil that plagued him on the inside.
Maybe one day, his art will cause the blind to open their eyes
and set their preconceived notions aside.
His dark world and their precious, fake consumer made world will collide
and they will have nowhere to fucking hide.
His stance on deep issues will be clarified
and the blind of the world won’t be able to ignore them and deny
the truths of the world starting them down cockeyed.
He will roll over in his grave feeling justified.
He will rise up feeling glorified.
The truth will be known about the horrors of suicide.
People will no longer look at his and be terrified.

His future wife kisses him on the lips snapping him back to reality.
She yells at him and tells him he’s been gone for a while; he doesn’t disagree.
He suffers from a mental illness so he tends to drift off,
but it’s not a bad thing to have,
since mental illness gave him a gift to share with the world,
mental illness is his virtue.