Turn it up only to Turn it Off
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From the stagnant seeds of life from which we grow,
To the pods of ceased existence towards which we slow.
Life is but a mere dial turning in monotonous motion,
One might argue that we are a blank slate, a plausible notion?
Etching experience upon our foundations from birth,
Formulating theories, ideas, emotions... From which we attain mirth.
But amidst the dancing laughter of our childlike cell structure,
In our deep thought ridden mind, contaminated, in a physical rupture.
Behind the happy memories and favourite ideas lies our true selves,
A thought so forgotten that it is but a fable even to your own self...
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For despite the teachings from predecessing generations,
And despite the leechings from the new human manifestations.
Our minds are limited, they reach terminal velocity to an extent,
Degrees and honours for our physical limitations partaking in an event?
Education is but a mere shroud to appease the blind masses,
Brains are but muscles to fill the gaping ignorant expanses.
Despite grinding glances and admiring smiles, we're a lost cause,
If only they could see this, if only they could hazard a pause.
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Screaming down to you as my very organs shiver,
Yet the only thing I sense is pity, and only a sliver.
"THIS IS MY MESSAGE" I shout to the thunder in contradiction,
"IT ALL MEANS NOTHING" I explain, in further misunderstood conviction.
Arms flailing, life fading, message failing, I grip the railing,
Leaning over their scowls and laughs, while clapped by incesant raining.
Standing in an inhuman pose atop a dull grey building talking to my public,
They're waiting for ME, MY message, MY life, MY ever relevant subject.
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Echoing splatters carry through my rice paper ear drums,
Releasing the pain and falling to the sane floor coated in rum.
Standing in confusion at these disgusting thoughts of anger and loss,
Looking at the television my pale reflection stares back, lost.
Reaching my hand slowly to my aged face, panicking, crying, misunderstanding,
Falling to my broken knees in an attempt at standing.
My face screaching down the static screen leaving a trail of blood diluted sweat,
The words emblazoned across the TV rip into his forehead in debt.
Falling dead the television fades, however, the message is maintained,
My head continues his dream as my philosophy is left to entertain.
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"Because beyond this life is another far beyond this trough,
It's but a test, a message, for we Turn it up, only to Turn it Off."
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By I, I mean Me, through which I mean They, which implies We,
Albeit ultimately One, which is inherently I, leaves me.
- Deviate
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