Stripped,
to the flesh.
Gnawed,
till there's nothing left;
but bones.
Buried 6 feet under,
like a cliche,
I lay; forgotten,
by my own consciousness.
Dead, but still roaming;
only a shell, of the former self.

Haunting,
screeching voices echo;
pleading mercy,
past peripheral vision.
Desperate to be heard,
yearning to embody.
Lost in translation,
misunderstood, and dreaded.
Stuck in limbo, with no suffrage.

Out of presence.
Still, real.
Seeking,
a chance at revival.

it is so ******* dumb
to keep going back
and back again
to the things
that hurts
us most
yet
we find
roads back
and back again
to whatever hurt
because it is better
to be hurt than alone

Pain used to inspire me to write.
Words would flow easily through my fingers,
substituting my tears.
I used to draw my pain. I painted my canvas with feelings,
and emotions, that words could not express.
If things started to feel hopeless, music was my saviour.
I would write lyrics, amplifying the words with sad tunes,
spilling my deepest, darkest thoughts.
But now, the pain is so strong, it is all I can think of.
My thighs are covered in scars,
from when the pain got so bad, that I needed to bleed it out.
Now, I realize, that I have drained myself.
There´s no tears, no words, no paint, no blood
left,
to spill.

You stab me in the back.
And then you beg for forgiveness.
And I forgive, but I never forget.
Cause if you look closely,
you will see, all the scars
from before.
Down on your knees, you´re so sorry.
Begging, for forgiveness.
As you mistake my kindness for weakness,
you stab, again and again.
Until you think, that you need not ask,
for me to forgive.
And this is when I know,
that you´re not worth my while.
As my wounds heal, I become stronger.
While you, grow weak.

I wear my heart on my sleeves.
As in the cuts that bleed.
Where everyone can see that I´m damaged.
How I´m broken,
ruined,
to pieces.
One can never fully recover.
As my cuts turn to scars,
my sleeves will still,
never be the same.
As the same for my heart.

My pulse is raising.
Sweat appears in my palms.
My fingertips are turning ice cold.
And so, follows the rest of my body.

I keep asking myself why?
But I can never seem to settle on a proper answer.
It´s an unlike pain,
that doesn´t physically hurt.

An immense trembling
that touches every nerve,
of my wrecked system.
It´s something that I can never understand.

I cannot quite grasp,
what my body is trying to tell me.
Involuntarily,
I´m forcing myself to insanity.

We do
as society wants us to.
Whatever it takes
just to fit in.
What happened to freedom of speech?
And our right to express ourselves?
By law,
you´re allowed.
But still,
society keeps a tight grip around our necks.
Like puppets,
we are controlled,
into becoming as one.
Instead of our own.

I wanted you.
But not in a sugary way.
I didn’t want the holding hands,
or the sweet kisses in public.
The fancy restaurant dinners,
or the flowers on valentine’s day.
You see, there´s a different between lust, and love.
I didn’t think that I needed you.
Not in that intimate,
warm, comforting way.
But on those days,
when loneliness
creeps upon me,
I feel your absence.
I nearly got a taste of you.
But you slipped like sand through my fingers.
And now,
I think,
I might have wanted you
a lot more,
than I thought I did.

My head tackled down,
viewing at the ground.
I dare not lift my expression,
as your eyes may meet mine.
It´s not that you don’t catch my interest.
Have faith in me when I say this.
But my eyes are the window to my soul.
I´m scared to show you, how badly I am wounded.
One look at me, and you will see, that I am damaged.
I am broken, and I am torn.
Ripped from joy, from happiness and from pleasure.
Your look pierce through my senses.
I tremble, with every single nerve in my body.
Frightened, that you might see who I really am.
It hurts me to expose all these wounds,
that I attempt so desperately to stitch.
I try, but I am too fearful to display myself so openly.
The wall of protection that I have built for myself is withering.
Lay your eyes on mine, and I will crumble.
For I have been strong for too long.
One taste of intimacy,
has me uncluttered, like the work of a world-famous artist,
exhibited for everyone to see.
And that, I am not ready for.

A knife to my heart.
I stand as I contemplate, whether I want this
or not.
The sharp blade, lightly caressing my skin,
before puncturing through.
There´s no pain that I haven´t felt.
I´m not giving up,
I´m letting go.
I´m letting go of all the sorrows,
that follows me everywhere I turn.
No substance can distract me,
from falling in love with the blade in my hand.
I used to think it did.
Those days are over.
No love can stop me from bleeding.
No promises can heal my scars.
As I bleed myself dry,
I get this feeling.
I´m finally free.

We are slaves to the society.
There is no real purpose in life.
It´s made up by the society, so that we can be lured into thinking that we have to settle down with the
same ****
everyday
lifestyle.
And if you do the most harmless "crime",
you will be punished for it.
We are shaped into believing that a spontaneous living
is the worst way of living.
We all dream of a perfect life.
And we hate ourselves, everyday
for not being able to achieve it.
All this because
we
are
afraid
of showing society the true form of the human species.
But we are the society.
So **** us all!

One touch.
Light as a feather.
Yet, a grip as powerful as steel.
The hands around my neck.
The thoughts that never leave my head.

How can the feeling,
of just a simple thought,
be so desiring, yet so deterring.
It´s something I want,
That I can never have.
Like the glimpse of sun rays in the darkest winter day.
That warm feeling, that so rarely occurs.  

I search, but I never find.
Because good is gone.
Lost, like my favorite pair of lingerie.
Whatever about that, that made me feel so good about myself,
even though I knew,
it never mattered.