Today,
I died. Again.
I keep doing so, and feeling more decrepit every time,
In spite of this young, shiny shell.
I wish I could break the spell.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 10:06 PM UTC
Another day in the tranches of life, crawling like a limbless animal.
Dragging its limp torso by clenching its teeth on the ground.
Honor roll human centipede.
Butterfly-to-(NEVER)-be.
I am doomed to life's muddy labyrinthine vortex
Bent and helpless.
The more I try to escape it, the more I choke on the dirt.
Acceptance.
Hello, maze of sick souls
Golgotha is thy name.
Everybody's crawling and carrying their wooden cross.
Attached to their spine like a set of broken wings.
Nailed to the cross -oh, manmade Gods of the tranches!
Half-and-half deities, artificially made in life's hellish laboratory.
Nailed-to-the-cross demigods.
Deceit or beliefs do not exist here,
In this church of mud.
At least there is some comforting easiness in doom, in this acceptance phase.
Faithless, tortured, honest souls, calling this maze home.
Home, sweet home.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 7:33 PM UTC
It's Friday, I am NOT in love.
Friday is a good day to turn your back on the world.
It is a good day to exit,
A better day to die.
Pulling a Jesus move on Monday morning.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 7:16 PM UTC
As you were lavishly embracing Morpheus, like the ***** of Babylon,
I was caressing the smoke from my cigarette with my tongue and lips.
This serpentine tongue,
This usurper of words and promises;
Fraudulent emotional serpent-
Never to be trusted.
I made loops with my tongue, and the smoke was like a circus acrobat,
While my lips were burning with grotesque desire;
They were craving your delirious nectar.
I stood there like an unmoving rock
Like Maria Magdalena next to crucified Jesus.
I stood there like a monk bending in front of the temple altar
I made an offering to you - myself
Under the veil of black lace I coyly waited for an answer.
Pious towards you, yet profane to the world
I counted your every heartbeat
So that my heart was in tandem with yours; it did not dare do otherwise.
This heart that pumped cold reptilian blood.
Who knew I can feel?
I swore this would be the last time.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC