Eighteen years old with a big ego.
But I can't love myself - that's a big no.
Who the **** have I become? I don't know.
Now I look just like them - from head to toe.
They got me all ****** up - I'm real low.
Got holes in my plans but can't forgo.
Gotta fight for the real me - can't let go.
Cause fake people can't tie me down no mo'.
I'l rise above and watch them burn below.
As they trade love for hatred - quid pro quo.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 1:43 PM UTC
There once was a carnivorous plant,
Who was tired of home’s tireless chant,
It rose from the soil,
Dressed in foil,
To walk on the lackluster land.
In the great city of New New York,
Where everything was made from cork,
Amongst reptilians,
A million gazillions,
It was a duckling next to a stork.
As the reptilians prepared for war,
Our protagonist felt a feeling sore,
The feeling of trust,
Fading to dust,
As all that was good was no more.
A deception planted in the mind,
Of freedom and peace was declined,
By a terrible war,
Death and gore,
Spawned by the vile humankind.
The plant visualized its tombstone,
As it walked the catacombs of Rome,
Eyes were closed,
The heart exposed,
As it missed the mantra of home.
Before it got to leave orbit,
It met an awful fate so morbid,
They needed rope,
Grabbed its throat,
Now sliced and sold at the market.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 3:51 AM UTC
Som tusindvis af kriblende myrer;
Myrer der slæber rundt på en fyrenål, på små bitte kviste eller en lille klump sammenhængende jord,
Som et stort kaotisk system af spinkle ben, følende horn og ækle insektkroppe,
Et system med en usynlig og uigennemskuelig dagsorden,
Samarbejdsvillige,
Men med forskellige funktioner,
Umulige at skelne fra hinanden ,
Forvirrende og spørgsmålsrejsende,
Svage alene,
Men revolutionerende og gennemslagskraftige sammen,
Eksistensbetvivlende og formålsforvirrende,
Hjerteskærende små myrer.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 9:47 AM UTC
A novel
Of a thousand pages
A poem
Of inner pain and suffering
A short story
With a dreadful plot
An articel
Concerning death and horror
A psalm
Of satanic hatred
Still express less
than the unspoken
The pen and the blank paper
Left in our world
By the ones who ended themselves
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 8:37 AM UTC
My burning desire to kiss her golden lips
is easily satisfied
But my sinful urge to keep my eyes closed
leaves my indecision amplified
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 4:38 PM UTC