Alphabets From An Asylum

The Hopeless Cynic (Voices In The Head Part I):

You ever realize,

you weren’t born —

you were assembled.

Scraped together from leftover punchlines

and childhood traumas nobody laughed at.

A jigsaw of unrealized genius and juvenile decay.

A sonnet scribbled in blood and half-burnt memories.

Now you sit here —

a poet who won’t rhyme,

and a humorist who won’t smile.

You want a legacy?

Your legacy is a landfill —

of existential monologues

you passed off as spoken word

because “confession” felt too naked.

You stitched metaphors

to bandage the fact

that even your metaphors

are terrified of how honest you get.

You romanticize rot.

Taxidermy your trauma in stanzas.

Auction your shame

like cursed antiques

from a haunted museum

no one dares to visit.

You think pain is art

just because you wrapped it

in shreds of conditional love

and sepia-toned trauma?

Your “style”

is just survival

with better punctuation.

You didn’t write poems.

You bled on a page

because stabbing yourself

was the only way

to feel alive

without dying.

The Disillusioned Realist (Voices In The Head II):

And yet…

Despite the gore,

you still fucking hope.

Hope that someone —

some unshaved stranger in a bookstore —

will find your bones

and call them blueprints.

You wrote like a man

trying to map meaning

in a language he invented

but forgot mid-sentence.

You never performed —

you confessed.

Not with flair,

but with a kind of nakedness

no spotlight could sanitize.

Your punchlines?

An autopsy.

You dissected society —

and made the corpse laugh

while pulling out its organs.

You broke yourself

to make strangers feel whole.

And every time they clapped,

you wondered

if they heard the cracking inside you, too.

You weren’t after legacy —

you were after exorcism.

And maybe, just maybe,

this chaos will count for something.

Maybe your deranged verse

will become scripture

for another broken fuck

too smart for therapy,

too tired for prayer,

and too proud to ask for help.

Oninthough (In Being And Bones):

So it’s true then.

I’m not mad —

I just speak the language of ruin fluently.

You —

my beloved monsters.

The cynic in warpaint.

The realist in retreat.

You've been scripting my encore

since before I touched a microphone.

You think I perform?

This is the asylum.

You are the walls.

And I?

I’m just the echo.

And yet —

between your violence and my verse,

a third voice lingers.

Not hope.

Not healing.

Hunger.

To matter.

To scar the silence

in a way that outlives the flesh.

You call it delusion.

I call it defiance.

If I must burn —

let me burn loud enough

to be mistaken for a sermon.

You think I’m healing?

I’m rehearsing.

You think I’m honest?

I’m hallucinating.

You think this is therapy?

No. This is theatre.

You think you’re the audience?

You’re the symptom.

You paid to witness

a man disintegrate beautifully.

And I let you.

Not because I trust you —

but because I don’t exist

unless someone’s watching.

I’m not here to be understood.

I’m here to make you question

why you ever wanted to.

And if you walk out

thinking I was brilliant —

then the real tragedy

isn’t that I’m mad.

It’s that you are.