'19%' by Ravyn LaRue

I like doing this, you know, darling
Pushing myself to the brink like this
When any filter I might or may have once had
Vanishes into dust and all the icky thoughts wedged between important things in my brain
Flow out easily like quickly melting ice
With no barrier, it’s understood that any moral pretense has flown.
I can’t be judged, for I’m not all here at this exact moment.
The problem I face with bringing myself to the edge of this cliff
It that I’m too damn dead tired to do anything of worth or merit.
Perhaps I still have a bit of that filter left-
Well, that’ll be fixed in no time!

I think it’s gone
But there’s definitely something still inside me
I’ve been conditioned like this
with prudishness and thoughts of saints and sin
Those things really don’t exist in the real world
Absolute perfection or evilness in humans is impossible
It must be
Otherwise I’m just really terrible at this whole ‘life’ thing

I’m putting off obligations of goodness even as we speak
I will do them, I promise
And I think thats what should matter
My palms and wrists are bruised
And my legs must be bare anyways

I like screaming my voice sore, if there’s some sort of purpose behind it
Oftentimes I don’t care if I sing well- if I radiate the proper emotion, that’s good enough for me
People are stupid, and sometimes care more about beauty than truth
They prefer to see the pretty flowers, and plants and trees
But they block out any recognition of the skeletons buried beneath the roots
I feel like art is meant to unearth those skeletons
I have my shovel, I’m ready-

Sometimes in my digging I hurt myself
I become to enamored with the thought of the pretty antique bones to care whether I’m bending correctly
Often at night, when I dance on my own, I hurt my knees through failed landings
I do what Maxine does, naked and full and crazy catharsis
I throw my body about, and dig in to some drive that pulls my tattered threads

I’ll get going, I promise
But I’m very thirsty, I always am
I’d swallow the ocean, but consuming that much beauty all at once would kill me.
There are other ways, I’m finding, to temporarily keep me from being parched.

Oh, don’t look at me like that-
I will, I always do.
Have I ever lied to you?
Well, recently?
Exactly.

There are only twenty-five left.
But it’s just a drop in the bucket.
My past actions dig me into holes, I now am having to figure out how to climb out of-
But I worry, I’m only digging deeper.
It’s alright, though.
One day I’ll arrive at the earth’s core.
I’ll bathe in the magma and be consumed.
By then I’ll know it’s time.

I’m beginning to feel that’s the right way to go about it.
Instead of trying to fill in old holes-
Climb in and dig deeper.
You’ll reach fertile soil eventually
And then you can settle for a while.

But I cannot sit and stay, so even as my garden grows-
I’ll tunnel to the sides and keep on digging for the beauty in the bones

I keep being interrupted with blackouts and phone-calls
I hate phones, I’d rather sleep in the comfort of darkness than stay speaking with stifled communication.
I manage to get banged up quite easily
I don’t think I’m a masochist or anything interesting like that
I just get marks from my art, but we’re back to that old story once again

I’m taunting her, and I’m beginning to feel guilty
Guilt is proof that I have a conscience
But it’s also proof that I’m thinking someone else’s thoughts
My knees hurt again
I was dancing recklessly last night
And it was beautiful
I know I lack any graceful form and structure
But if they could see me in those moments of solitude
They would know that I have that mastered, too-
In my own way
All art should be mastered in one’s own way.

I need to stop sitting idly as my few remaining days in this stage of my life fly past me quickly
But I have so many obligations
If I don’t devote some time to obligations, I won’t have the freedom to expand later
I do have a fraction of foresight, if you could believe it-
But devoting myself mostly to obligations allows my mind to venture off
In my short stints of current freedom-
And dive off the deep end into a pool of obsessions and insanity
I think that’s how I cope

I am obsessed with many things, and usually it is a productive vise
But in situations like this, I merely fall in love with something ornate
And decide, like a child, to gawk and wait and pine for it
I thought I had grown out of that sort of symptom ages ago
But, alas, it’s not the case
I’m sure it was inevitable, everyone has their vices
But usually I can keep them compact to the point of being charming
Now, I’m full throttle with any fancy that floats through my brain
Some fancies invite themselves in, make themselves comfortable, and remain as unwanted guests
But you know, deep down, that when they finally pack their bags and venture off-
You’ll miss them as if they were your own children
And you’ll see them on the news or whatever and think,
Hey, that’s my baby!
But I’m just fanatic, so that might just be my perception of it

As for insanity,
I like her a lot.
I try to use her as constructively as I can
I don’t want her to possess me entirely
But when she does in short shots
I feel all her beauty people prior wrote of
She’s a fiery thing.
She allows me to speak in her voice sometimes-
And I think it’s a beautiful timbre.

If capitalism crumbled
The monarchy fell
The sea consumed the shores
I think I could survive a while
I’m not physically fit or anything like that
But I have no qualms with acting animalistic
I feel rather caged right now
And I would be intrigued to see what I’d do if those bars were removed-
And I could run wild

But I don’t want to damn our society
As flawed as it is-
I wouldn’t call myself an anarchist
I’m knowingly tamed and unless I see the sky fall-
I think I’m alright here.
They feed me well
And I can swim, sometimes
And I have companions, close enough to my species that we get along
Zoos aren’t evil-
What is cruel is the fact that we’ve never been advanced enough to enjoy our freedom
We doomed ourselves with eugenics and dumb things like that-

I’m getting pretentious-
I do that a lot
I think I’m smart.
Not nearly as smart as most of my friends-
But I’m not dumb enough to think the world is black and white, anymore

I used to draw without color
I saw it as simpler
but back then I was on the cusp of beginning
Now I have a smidgeon of talent
And lots of experience
So now I long for as many shades of color as possible

It’s a good analogy
It’s true-
Life imitates art, they always say.
I wish I didn’t care what “they” say
I mention they and them a lot
Only I know what I’m talking about, of course
But some people like to rack their brains over cracking open some mystery
I, on the other hand, like keeping my secrets
And I don’t give a damn about the word of God.

I live for the moments when music reaches out with its ghostly hand-
Grasps at my new heart
Tugs it out from my chest
Licks and chews and salivates on it-
Teeth leaving marks
Slime seeping in
Music then looks into my big grey eyes
He grins and says
“Go Fetch”
As he throws it as far as his strong arms possibly can
I nod my head and run after it-
Listening to his haunting voice all the way.
How can someone ignore such an experience?

I’ll be honest-
I often don’t feel human
But I don’t know what it is that I am instead.
There are many fine people I doubt are human.

I get stuck in doldrums often.
I need sleep, a primal instinct-
But I can’t deny my responsibilities.
I’m subservient to society
And I wish I were brave enough to not be.
There should be no penalty for doing what one longs for.
I long to write this, which is why I’m acting.
Well, people shouldn’t be punished if their actions aren’t harmful.
I should specify-
I already have enough people crying out to the heavens-
Informing God that I’m an evil beast.
As if Ze didn’t know.

Just a nap shouldn’t hurt.
I mean, I’ll do what I need to do afterwards-
And that way I’ll be well-rested enough to do those things properly.

I don’t long to be proper.
I don’t long to be good.
I long to put my all into whatever I create-
That could mean anything.
I like ambiguity.
Morally ambiguous characters are the best.
I long to be one in my life.

I feel like such a bad person sometimes-
There’s that pesky conscience again.
I think I ought to kill her
But then I’d miss her.
It wouldn’t be guilt, since she’d be gone-
It would be mourning.

For all my love for morbidity
I do think death is important
And should be given gifts
Mourning is a gift to the creature who perished
And the fact that any of us could go at any time
Mourning is Empathy.

God, I’m tired.
But I boarded this train, and I’m riding it until it stops
Otherwise the price of the ticket would surely be too much.

I scare myself really easily,
No, really, I do-
I know some people go out looking for ways to be misunderstood
So much so, that they are misconstrued by themselves
But I try to be authentic, and in that authenticity
I see how weak and awful I have the ability to be
I’m skittish at night.
And I like to be scared.

I would hate to live in fear, from something real.
But I worry about child fears, like monsters and demons.
I know humans are the real threat.
But I shrug and say,
“They’re only mortal, which means they can be defeated as easily as I.”
But when humans band together-
That’s unconsolably terrifying.
I can’t help you there, darling.

Really I don’t see why I care about my mortal husk
What I should put all my energy into is my art
And I’m idealistic about it already
But I think I have to take one more step before I’ve left the cliff of narcissism and shallowness.

I see what I want to see.
Especially at this time of the day.
I need to reach out to someone.
Or allow myself to fall back into a dream.
The latter sounds easier.
And I promise to follow through with all I said I would do.
But if I don’t I’ll feel worthless, and cry and apologize.

I’m up to the red line again
I have bloodshot eyes to match.
I’ll just frame a few crimes
Turn off the lights
And I’ll go to bed at noon