bubblegum popping
you reminded me of sin
with scent sickly sweet

writing poetry, for me, has become like a eating disorder.
although instead of consuming,
i'm the one producing.

each day i strive for this unattainable image,
this glorified idea of what i might become,
and the parasite in my brain grows.

i force my finger down my throat,
causing words to come bubbling up.
and each time they are more vile than the last,
a sour odor wafting from them.

my mouth burns from the acid but it tastes like victory.
because at least i created something.
and i leave my poetry there to rot,
refusing to admit i have a problem.

too blind to understand that each time i do this i'm slowly killing myself.
i'm hungry for something that can sustain me,
but i reject every antidote.

Beware trespassers her rivers run deep
Your life on the line shes playing for keeps
A valuable mind and insightful heart
she'll put you together then rip you apart
She reads your thoughts, she visits your dreams
But "Nothing is ever as good as it seems"
Run faster before she catches up & you fall
The devil's on your tail & she has you enthralled
She will take your soul and steal your last breath
Your life is now hers, the sacrifice - your death

The living dead are going to
ask for the right to be
forgotten in gender dysphoria.

In grimed apparel,
the deities were deported back
to the barn, for housing the antiques.

The future turns blue,
moon-eyed, hooking up the
hopes of running heels.


Is that true that there
will be mass suicide after
the fall of the fort?

The fat lanterns now
don't throw the light. Incense
of burning flesh floats.

Oblivion is like mental slavery...