Can you Hear me?

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Can you hear me, my beloved? 

Can you feel me, my beloved?

Can you sense the pain I feel, my beloved?

 

I have a taste for self loathing.

Striving for a perfect image.

I am insane. More than you know.

I’m just afraid that you will go.

 

Can you hear me, my beloved? 

Can you feel me, my beloved?

Can you sense the pain I feel, my beloved?

 

I won’t lie, I have given myself pain.

I won’t lie, I’ve only ruined myself.

I won’t lie, i’m my own enemy.

 

In the mirror I see the monster I know is me.

Even though, you claim to gaze upon beauty. 

My fears devour me when I try to sleep.

Medication making me just weak.

I’m reaching out to you.

I don’t you’ll reach back to me.

Can you hear me, my beloved? 

Can you feel me, my beloved?

Can you sense the pain I feel, my beloved?

 

I will drown in my own madness.

Maybe some day, I will be able to live again.

Here I am in the same pine box.

Haunted by the ticking clock. 

 

Can you hear me, my beloved? 

Can you feel me, my beloved?

Can you sense the pain I feel, my beloved?

 

 

© Mercy Desdemona 2013

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Mystic Land

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In the mystic lands.

With food so plenty.

Where mystery creatures,

were once our teachers.

A world where the mind,

was free to fully bloom.

Knowledge was power.

No bias media to consume.

Where has this mystic land gone?

Why was there only one?

Oh where is this mystic land?

Why are we fed the devil’s hand?

The heart & soul had reigned on earth.

The mighty evil powers, struck down by the Gods.

Simplicity based.

Born to strive necessity.

Not luxury.

Where has this mystic land gone?

Why was there only one?

Oh where is this mystic land?

Why are we fed the devil’s hand?

We live in a world where knowledge is terrorism.

A heart the enemy, people roaming hungry.

The creatures are now extinct.

We’re programmed to think.

Where has this mystic land gone?

Why was there only one?

Oh where is this mystic land?

Why are we fed the devil’s hand?

Home is this mystic land.

Where I strive to be.

Oh, take me to this mystic land.

Just please set me free.

Home is this mystic land.

A human being I shall be.

With fields of imagination.

Heaps of creativity.

Where has this mystic land gone?

Why was there only one?

Oh where is this mystic land?

Why are we fed the devil’s hand?

Home is this mystic land.

Please take me home.

Where I can roam free.

I want to go home.

© Mercy Desdemona 2013

I’m Writing a Horror Film

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Hello my creeps.

Yes, I am writing a lot in my blog tonight because I have the funny feeling that I shall be busy writing my horror film today and will be neglecting my blog for a little while. I have been inspired to write my own horror film. It started off as a short story is now turning into a film within my brain and I’m inspired to write music and lyrics for it as well. My creativity is sky rocketing lately and I’m going to take advantage of it.

I will lock myself in my room with my notebooks, candles, and snackage to work upon this master piece festering within my brain. I enjoy creative binges. I must say though the best inspiration always comes when in the shower. Why is that? I hate it sometimes. Because when I get out and I’m back to reality — I forget what I have thought up. Soooooo — Lock away in my room with Mozart and candles to go on a creative splurge.

– Blood & Guts

– Mercy Desdemona

The Girl – Intro

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**** This is a story I wrote in 9th grade (I’m guessing) for a school horror project. Needless to say the post here, I’ve re-written to make it more how I write now. The original intro will be written below the Re-Written.*****

It’s 5:08 AM. I’m still awake from the night before. The house is silent as it creaks with the wind. My mother lay asleep next to my father in the next room. Their snores seem to echo throughout the silent house. I’m lying upon my bed, bathed in light from the sky. I don’t know what has come over me lately. I just never sleep. I got out of my bed quietly, tiptoeing downstairs. No lights are on and I smile in the dark. I love the dark and the way it holds me. The way the devil’s arms seem to be around me. Much like that of the embrace of a lover.
I made my way to our neat and tidy living room. Everything had its place. Ever since mom became best friends with Prozac. I went over to the family portrait. As I’m standing there looking at our faces with the phony smile and the “everything is well” pose… I wished it would burn. Burn to hell. Burn it all! I hate having a fake smile. I hate the way I cannot be true to who I am within. No one would understand what’s within. No one… not even myself.
I try to hold back tears as I stood there. Oh, what I would do to have my friend back. If he wouldn’t have died, maybe my mind wouldn’t be in this state. He taught me how to be strong in a family full of liars. A family full of lunatics that would tear each other down instead of help them up. I throw the portrait into the fireplace and watched it burn slowly. A grin came upon my face as I watched the flame devour our faces. First, my father’s face, then my mothers and finally mine. I felt a sense of evil running through my veins. It was like a drug and I was the addict. No rehab for me. I slowly walked into the kitchen and grabbed a knife. I slowly made my way up the stairs, being ever so quiet, and slowly opened my parent’s bedroom door…

© Mercy Desdemona 2012

Original Written in ’06:

It’s 5:08AM. I’m still awake from the night before. My mother lay asleep next to my father in the next room. There snores seem to echo through the house. I tiptoe downstairs. No lights are on. I love the dark. The way it holds me. The way the devil’s arms seem to be around me. A loving embrace.
I go towards the living room. Looking at my family portrait. I wish it would burn. Burn to hell. Burn it all! I hate my fake smile. I hate the way I can’t be myself. No one understands. No one!! Not even me!! Oh. What I would do to have my friend back. If he wouldn’t have died, maybe my mind wouldnt be in this state. He taught me how to be strong in a family full of liars. A family full of close-minded lunatics.
I throw the portrait in the fire. Grin as I watch our faces burn. BURN BABY!! first my father’s face, then my mothers. Finally mine. I felt the evilness goes through my veins. It was like drug. I was addicted. No rehab for me. I slowly walked into the kitchen. Grabbed a knife. Started making my way up the stairs. I slowly opened my parent’s bedroom door….

© Mercy Desdemona 2006