i am angry, and i am sick, and i am fucking tired.
my body is rotting,
my hands shake.
i am Achilles.
best of the Greeks,
angry and righteous and terrible.
i brought the pestilence to your home- it will kill your sheep.
it will kill your flock, your herd, your crowd, your audience, mister.
after it’s killed everyone else, it will come for you.
it will taste like ginger.
like sulfur burning your lungs.
there will be nothing to shield you,
no trust fund,
no lying sons and daughters who feed only on your game.
the disease will have killed them,
it will be because of me.
the sun is mad, it’s betrayed you.
because of me.
when you look at your empire for the last time,
you will see me,
burning and rotting and
Even the most selfless creatures
retreat from their humble existence
with sordid intentions of self maintenance.
But this beast of a man needs not a drug
nor a meal, high on altruism and a stomach filled with giving back. What when he has had
nothing taken to return, withering away and
running out of resilience? He will rot in the belly of the void he had birthed, devoured by
vultures he had once liberated from a life far worse than now-- he will be consumed by the concerns of the collective.
Naked I came, naked I’ll leave
Then the worms will dine on me
This circle of life I cannot flee
A painless death is my only plea
There is beauty in bloom, there is beauty in rot
But in the end I’ll care not
Fingers, toes, eyes, and bone
I shall return to earth
Life is a loan
Growing up as a child I only saw the best in everything and everyone around me.
I saw the world in colors and smiles, laughter and love.
I never thought that when I hit middle school the darkness would consume me and swallow me up.
It used to be a word I thought I’d never understand.
A word that people around me joked about,
A symptom that isn’t even real.
You see, depression is this constant feeling of dread, failure, sadness…
Like you’re stuck in a pitch black pit of despair that feels as simple as a coffin.
Where you're not only cut off from the world but you’re cut off from yourself.
A ghost inside a body that just wants to lay there and rot.
I used to be scared I could catch depression as a child,
As if someone could sneeze on me and I would immediately become infected.
All of my happiness slowly being devoured.
Depression is a battle and sometimes we’re out numbered.
Sometimes the fight is fixed.
“Love is like a reckless twin; I’m giving in.”
Scandipop on the radio,
The scent of marijuana hanging heavy in the air;
The fruits of my love lie wasted,
Overripe and burdensome,
And I drink deeply from the sweet pools of wine
That gather where the fruits were bruised,
Either by their lesser fall,
Or their greater failure,
Having been inspected by most,
And rejected by all.
Marked explicit just in case.
You are falling down a rabbit hole of
hatred for yourself, and I hate you for
it. I hate the part of your mind that turns
you against yourself, for you don't deserve
it. I am at the bottom with you, for
every pace upwards I will be there
to push you, but I fear that I will not
be strong enough to keep you upright for
the time it takes you to return to your
strength. I grow weak, and you sap my strength from
me unknowingly as I become increasingly
tired and lose the will to live, drained by
the parasite within that will not let
me truly connect. Can't you see that I
am bound by the black sludge around my tongue
which coats my words and keeps me locked inside?
I fear that I cannot help you, for I
am nothing except the waiting -
waiting for my time to die.
I cannot help but wish I was on the
first side, where life blooms in rippling
fantasies and all has colour.
On this side, where they said it was greener,
all is rotten and dead. I sent out my
poison and killed all of the grass, so now
there is nothing at all to shine its green
The air is full of dust.
The chairs are rotting, creaking planks of wood.
The roof can cave in, given the right moment to expose the sun–
The heating sun that beats upon this sickly place.
My family's faces were eaten alive by termites, infesting the photo frames,
And a flicker of the lights puts this sleeping place to bed,
Where it belongs had I the right ideas inside my head.
If I was any wiser I would leave at once without a twist of neck.
I would run away and maybe change my name.
I'd never think of looking back...
Yet here I am unwise. The floor is rubbish, never rubbed or rinsed,
And populated by more wallpaper than the walls.
From the bathroom leaks a familiar yet appauling smell.
My family's faces were eaten, deceased, by maggots.
My dad drowned in the bathtub, and my brother in the sink.
My mother lifeless on the bed because she was confused for steak.
My uncle always said to me that luxury is for the saved.
As for the rest there is no other place to go,
Because my home is at the grave.
Guthrie is a man made of garbage
His dreams they rot and leak
He has banana peel hair
Hes got old martini olive eyes
But did you see him before the light died
Way back to a time when charm and wit flowed freely from his mouth
His tongue a silver spoon
His dealing hand like a golden talon
Tryna snuff the light out
His feet the vehicle taking him to paradise
He says "you only live once, better live the burning life."