The Rise of the Fall

Clawing at the surface. Tracing truth in shades of red. Cut me away. Cut me away from all of this.
Whispers burn like fairy tales and torch these paper walls. To the ashes we go, my sweet. To the ashes of it all.
I can't believe in anyone else but me. But if you fall in place, if you fall in line coincidentally,
tell me something real. Don't condescend or comprehend for the sake of my heart. Feel what you feel.
Feel the ink as it stains the page with the opportunity to last forever. I'm scratching at the words. But I just make it worse. I just make it hard to read, gets hard to see. It's everything and everyone that makes me question me.
Am I really this vain and insecure? Am I this worthless or am I something more? Am I really falling or just new to the rise? Am I as honest as I say I am or do I believe my own lies?
Not falling for a valiant effort. Not settling for my very best. Like these heroes without a song, I'm secretly unsatisfied. I am a tragic contradiction to all that I believe. I'm everything I hate. I'm everyone I need.
I don't want this to be another fallacy or another shattered dream. I want truth, pure and painful.
Show it all to me.
And when I say come cut me down, grab your rusty sword. Sharpen it with my own words and carve away.
I am unstable in the light of possibility. I say these things with conviction. But I'm still just a boy.
A man without an angel. A grave without a ghost. A heart without a reason to call this world a home.
I need more than confidence. I need more than efficacy. I need more than these unflinching strengths that I swear I have in me.
But I'm not immune to the wickedness that pools inside my stomach. These rotten aspirations to fail and think nothing of it.
I really want to dream. I really want the best. But I've been down so long, so very long. I'm afraid of changing.
What lies ahead of the lies right now?
This book of wonder I write in blood has tragedies in spades. The only thing to trump my truths is the following empty page.
What will I become if this passion becomes will? And if I know I'm willing, will I fabricate the kill?
Will I write my own disaster like a glorified suicide for all my reachable dreams?
Or will I take a breath?
Do I deserve it?
I have no idols. No role models. No one to set an example.
Because if and when I do succeed, the credit is mine to keep.
Bits and pieces of the innocent will be remembered for their time. A time to crush the evil ways of a man condemned to try.
Spellbound and reckless, this realization takes flight. Burn up everything meaningless in a ruthless wake of fire.
I don't know what will happen. But I do know what could.
I may very well decimate my own imagination. But then again, what would become of the cynic without a mind? I would be no good.
So here's to the rise and the fall and the rise of the fall. I will drink this life like a plague. Hold my breath and swallow it down like the poison of heartache.
I will conquer all my doubts by doubting every question. I will follow the trail of bodies back to point I lost my mind. Then I will smile with intensity, and realize, I've been right this whole time.
People get what they deserve, and so shall I.