Rhetorical Blasphemy

Holding a gun to my head,
Despite facing the consequence of ending up dead,
A fear that comes to mind,
For moments earlier I were too blind,
How often I had stumbled upon individuals who had unknowingly persuaded me to cry,
At least I sat honestly in the toilet reading articles of poetry,
As if it were pornography,
The death of me.
I'm deaf to me,
I spoke but had not heard,
Suffice it were too late,
As if I were a little bird,
Struggling to surpass the mighty wind across the tide,
Although the chances were I could have died,
The depths and lengths I took had left me numb and celibate,
I then suffered a horrible fate;
Insomnia,
I lack to sleep,
Trapped in a world where none but I existed,
Till I met my distant persona,
That devil who took away the last hope I had to ever feed...
Off the ability to draw energy from another,
In order,
But I resisted...
This devil's temptation,
And I yet saw these people fail,
Amidst my eyes,
I saw their lies,
Their words of sin to me were braille,
Thus did I not find a true vivid connection.
Only those vague and subliminal words of seduction,
Stagnant in a world of confusion.
I figured it was hard,
Everything was far away,
And in my veins my blood felt like clay,
Like so many others I became a slave to the thought that I was God.
Call it blasphemy,
Too far beyond my own hypothetical existence as an indigenous,
Individual lost in a world of translation;
Is this my own transformation?
To a purpose of my own entity,
Or were these thoughts at all for me healthy?

This poem is about: 
Me

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