Tag Archives: psychological torment

Self-flagellation: The Last Highway out of Hell

Posted in Poetry English by
flagellation_by_mariapetrova_dd11d3u-fullview

This is not redemption—it is penance without absolution.

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He whips himself, he whips himself very hard,

his silent screams, hiding behind an ugly grimace

The cat-o’-nine-tails screams like a mad banshee,

the knots striking in a frenzy, a blood thirsty race

Each lash is a tribute, a homage to a specific memory,

a black hole in the whole black and vast space of life

Each stroke exposes a white pulsating nerve,

a silver snake writhing under a very sharp knife

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He hurts himself, he hurts himself so real bad,

drawing crimson patterns across his naked back

The skin breaks, and ruby drops appear one by one,

thickening, congealing, stinking, and turning black

The flow of blood sometimes turns into a rivulet,

drops transforming into streams, streams into creeks

Crimson spatters his bent shoulders and the spine,

tracing the paths of pain and the punishment it seeks

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He makes himself suffer; he suffers for very long,

feeling the whip slither within the stinking, thick slush

The skin is no more, his back is all but raw flesh,

but his overpowering regret, the whip fails to crush

‘Oh! Why do you punish, why do you hurt yourself?’

the Devil asks him with a mockingly soft sympathy

And God, He just turns his face away in disgust,

there is no place for him in His great hall of empathy

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‘I walk the path of pain, I have chosen it for myself,’

he answers and grips the whip firmly and caresses it

‘I penalize myself, I pass each judgment harshly,

I condemn myself; the fire of misery is always lit

Self-flagellation is my penance for sins so many or few,

it is a dark journey, and I have been travelling ever since

Self-flagellation is the last highway out of my own hell,

while my soul burns in agony, I remain the exiled prince’

Murmuring of the Immortal Birds

Posted in Poetry English by
a_murmuration_of_starlings____by_earth_hart_d79i5vd-fullview

He bleeds from a million places but only he sees the blood; he screams with a million faces but only he hears the words—this is what it means to be hunted by the immortal birds.

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Deep within the void I choose to call my heart,

there exists the nucleus of my old and tired soul

It is a desolation, so fierce and so very vast,

a frozen glacier, so very bitter and so very cold

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The harsh chill bites into my creaking bones,

it cuts me from without and also from within

Intense is the pain, so many shades and tones,

twisting my memory and crumpling my skin

_________________________________________________

I bleed profusely from a million different places,

yet it is only I who sees the oozing blood

I shout helplessly with a million screaming faces,

no one helps, no one comes to stop the flood

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‘You are cursed forever,’ the words say,

destined to walk alone, the sad path of life

‘To the very end, that is your only way,

a watery grave, a bullet, or maybe a sharp knife’

_________________________________________________

‘And why is that so?’ I ask with a weary smile,

while my heart keeps on sinking, down and down

‘Your soul is dark,’ strangely, the answer is so vile,

and your heart is an abandoned ghost town’

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I look within and find all the ghosts smiling,

their faces contorted in agony and in mirth

Their gestures are cruel and all reviling,

demons in pursuit, since my damned birth

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I look around and find myself surrounded,

by the murmurings of all the immortal birds

I look at myself, forever hunted, forever hounded,

their razor-sharp beaks, claws, and harsh words

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The birds are all near, they are almost here,

they are eager to devour my exhausted soul

Their whispers are dreadful, I tremble with fear,

my fate is all done, it has rolled its black scroll