Misery,
no matter its history,
always learns,
ways to return.

The dirt in line with your toes,
the grass in line with your ankles.
Your arms jump then freeze,
your fingers touching the grass.
Nothing has ever seemed so real.
But, it is only a moment.
You begin to dig and
you keep going, you don’t care.
You don’t care.

Pestilence growing in your nails,
refusing to see the grass, so flimsy,
now that you finally had the courage,
to hold on to the dream.
The dream that abates in line with the thought that follows-

Why god, did he do that to me?

Sweat accrues, and you wipe your face.
The dirt from your nails beseeches your face.
The clock is ticking.
You stare into the hole you are making.
And as you do,
you feel the grass beginning to grow once again.

Your fingers, greasy, yet you remain dedicated.
Dedicated to this craft!
Dedicated to this destiny!
But you can’t stop the grass, time is running thin,
the rain has begun.
You must finish.

You dig more and now, now,
finally, the water slips from your cheeks,
landing in the center of the hole.
Creatures,
with endless and dazzling tiny legs you dream of come out of the sides,
only to find that they, too, are merely experimenting.
Ripped grass tears through their bodies, and as your rip it out,
so do their screams. You hear them.
Begging just for one more breath,
before you crush them with your feet.
But the hole kept shrinking.
But their screams wouldn’t cease.
More kept coming from the ground.
Begging for peace.
You disrupted their lives, and so,
you must **** them all.
They simply needed a way out of this.
You thought you were doing them a favor.
You thought you were doing them a favor.

Your hands jump back to your face.
Their screams remained,
or was the memory just that vivid?



You’ve grown tired.
Leaving your motionless state
was enough.
You can’t do this anymore.

You made the wrong decision.
But, now, the disease has spread.
Running out of words to describe,
Is just the beginning.
You hear the screams returning.
Do you not deserve this?
You can’t move at all.
You feel, nothing, but,
regret.

More creatures escape,
and surround the murderer!
You beg, you beg, just for a response.
But they just stare.
Moving as eternity.
You beg for mercy.
But they have none to give.
And the rain becomes too much.
They drown one by one.

They scream standing.
You hear birds in the distance.
Finally, the rain has gone,
and, finally, you are
above the clouds watching peace take over.

I patiently catastrophize
the boisterous morning that will follow.
A day, like today, mourning, in a tentative morning.
I knew they were there, but,
how much can they deny me sensation before they
clamor and destroy what is left inside?
An ego idealized by the being of passion.
Driven, to a harrowing morning.
Mourning.
Polish the idea that this is safe,
that this is meant to be.
Crumble into insanity at night.
Mourn the morning afterwards.
This is existence?
A mind incapable of compartmentalization.

Pitiful fracas.
I am not one with ‘us.’
Boring, so boring, you are?
Leave the energy, soon it will be far.
Fake! Pleasant speech, ridiculing
grandeur coming from a storm brewing.
She can’t be dead!
She can’t be dead!
I hear her in my walks as if they’re dreams,
spiteful heroism coming from rung out themes.

Is she, actually a moment,
or is she
something more tangible.
A lifetime in a pocket,
a watch ticking.
Ticking. Ticking.
Why have I become so weak?
I give into nothing,
or am I just the way she wanted?

She has become so possessive,
just as all that is obsessive,
began to fade away.
Starting a few months after May,
a few thoughts began to dwindle,
but to me, that was only a riddle.
Is she behind the curtain,
they are all but certain.
They miss her, I’m sure,
but to me, death is pure.

I am weak.
So very weak.
She judges the moments.
As i am judged by, not myself,
but by the angels above.
She speaks the language of despair.
Death.
Death to the angels.
Leave me be.
Leave me be.

Somewhere,
between one and a dozen,
was infinity.
Peaceful,
identical to empty energy
engulfed by
a haze of elation.
No frustration.

Take me, pills.
You walked in and saw
a corpse with a smile
plastered on its face.
You touched me.
You ******* *******.
Emptiness dies like
joy when reality
falls on your face.

I felt nothing at all.
Just the infinity
of death.
But,
you touched me.
Enough had happened already.
But,
you touched me.
I chose to be away from you.
But,
you touched me.

Memory has gone in a haze.
Just the look of horror,
on your face,
when you
were the one
who dealt with the guilt.
The guilt of putting me back
in my place.

Take me, pills.
Take her, too.
She touched me.
One of three,
none will know just what it is
like,
to forcibly remove the pain.

Morning rinses,
bleak as night’s wishes.
Mirror stares, a returning glance,
empty and a portrayal of trance.
Running wet hands through a face
which then becomes faces out of place.
Fabrication of dried skin, weakened,
by morning rinses, a beg to look thin.

It is the one thing that keeps the mind
distracted by  the tangled brain saying nevermind.
Skin glistening, memories, enchanting like they’re
misery struggling to know, just where?
Where do these ideas come from?
Surely, nothing exists in a mind so dumb.
Possessed by the walls,
struggling to hear the morning bird calls;

Morning rinses.
Morning rinses,
of the face so purely lacking anything,
or is it just telling you something?
The worlds of regret are finally drowning,
but you are not the one who is allowing.
No, you are just the observer,
and this morning will last forever.

An ardent following,
superseded by disdain
that comes like the aligned
sadism brought by you.
Feel like a failure?
Like the weapons in your brain
have finally run out of power and
that they were fabricated
from day one.
Feel like a failure?
Not yet?
You will never find a joy in
A brusque portrayal of success.
Because you have failed.
They will find out eventually.
They all will.
The trickster is not the manipulator.
You joke.
You are envious, envious of
others, how superficial!
Just like you want to be,
because you fail to elaborate
upon your own promises.
You surrender to the gift
that is moving on.
Just like anyone else!
How could someone like you fall so flat?
High functioning, or lack thereof.
You can fool the weak,
but so can any glimmer of hope.
Superimpose your lies
as you run out of time
and play the demi
in order to fornicate with
the incessant drive rather than
the polished joy that is success.
Move on.
You are a failure.
You are beginning to run out of options,
your only option is surely deceit.
Manipulators driven by the harrowing
sense that tomorrow will bring
inner motivation for another
night of fulfillment.
You, my friend,
are no different.
You resort to illusion because
you cannot create your own world.
You will die by the hands of  another.
Another just like you.
Weak and powerless in the eyes
of those who a greater
than your desire
of
being as great.

Endless ropes tangle and grab
each individual omnipotent thought
of pleasure, denied gravity.
Slowed down, brought to frivolous
thoughts of relapse.
Speeding through the flimsy nature
of the ropes final stance.
A noose of the future.
A pivotal moment in comprehending,
all of this temporary fixation of
tragic dead-weight.
I am nothing but god’s will, contrary
to the greater good.
The ropes rip through themselves and idealize
Mistakes.
Pleasures.
Fixations themselves, alone and without
a viewable malice.
Distance is a deliberate blemish.
I don’t need to view myself.
I am falling through the ground and reaching
a turning point. Again. And again.
Faces and voices alike mean nothing until
I beg for forgiveness of myself.
Drifting between pressure tantamount to
torture in solitude.
Anyway, anytime,
I am succeeding in being alone.
Where is the recognition?
This pleasure, is it faux?
Grandiose indeed, a desperate attempt
at reaching a point where days
that exist and have existed are
superficial.
This recovery is relapse.
I will fall back, the ropes
still begging to hold me.
They speak my name.
My name is everything to them.
They are in abundance, but
I am obsequious.
It is all fake.
It is a testament to the reality of it all.
I will grab myself,
pulling as hard as I can until the ropes
snap and I return to a brooding state.
I ruminate.
The rumination expands and breaks my body.
Will I ever return to bliss?
Or was I never there?
Blemished and weak,
always there. I bloom.
Grandiosity returns,
the ropes rekindle their romance in twos.
It all ends.
I have failed my reckoning.
This is reality.
A twist of fate that can only be seen,
by god himself.
Whomever he may be.
I would like to meet him.
He sounds like I would like him.
I love him.
He is eternity, is he not?
The journey is dreadful,
but the return is remorse.
Nothing is right and nothing is wrong.
Either way, I am hanged by ropes I
have obliterated in a haste.

My love.
My fervent darling from above.
Submerged by your
eyes that scream,
with boiling passion,
"I am not worth this."
Whether you are, or not,
your mind,
being as fragile as it is invincible,
is worthy of spawning a universe.
Dazed,
not by agony,
but by the confusion itself,
will not separate purity
from the perilous journey
we undergo.
I beg to find anything other than
an agonizing defeat.
Searching endlessly,
has become a necessity.
Grant me eternity.
I'm mesmerized by
moments of you,
unadorned.
Seeing through fog,
blemishes no part of the sky.
I open my heart and get filled by
another one that digs deep.
Troubled and withdrawn,
I am nothing but a whisper,
"I love you."
Pain is a facade for sanctity.
Pain is a facade for sincerity.
There is escape from suffering,
but looking for it caused more.
But now, I am at peace in a world of
horror.
Everything looks bright,
so bright.
I wish I could see through your eyes,
just to feel,
for one moment,
how it feels to see the world through such beauty.

Clamoring words,
self-induced quiver.
Worlds, locked inside the mind
of a fabulous mixture of trance,
wisdom and a fearless anxiety,
suddenly, subtly, spat words
of endless drudgery,
spoken vibrantly,

Sleep.
Sleep?
Sleep!



,

Shut down the barricades,
no matter how vapid,
words will come out.
They remain paramount in a mind
without thought and will sound unlike
the exchange of a delusion
so, so, and so
Just to hear a voice,
just to hang from the rafters
instead of tying a rope around my neck
and prancing on the stage
like some kind of fool.

It’s true,
I will never
reach my ideas of bliss.
For that is only an apology,
bound to happen.
What now?
It is time to bury my head in the sand,
just as delusions do.

Entertain the,
silly idea,
that they’re
watching you.

Not the people,
but the ideas.
How they dance,
how they laugh,

around your shrinking skull.
A skull, your comrade,
that blissfully goads you,
to fight them all.

Unaware, you have already begun.
You have started disgracing yourself.
You, bombastic and terribly wise,
find yourself weak, and ‘facetious.’

You can kid the brilliantly obvious idea
that structures are supposed to die.
Of course, people must die, too.
They, are the ones belittling you.

Taking away your identity, punishment is near.
Shamed by your guilt, losing seems apprehensive.
For, either way, you will die gracefully,
as concepts fail to understand, your ideas.

They, are the ones who must suffer death.
One filled with, not suffering, but just what?
It must be their destiny, to drown in dirt.
These things, belong to the ground, silly me.

Pour yourself, a dream.
Scour all who remain.
Enjoy watching them die,
even though it’s destiny.

I feel the breath on my pores.
And,
with every hair, standing on my arms,
I feel so close to being drained by these last ideas
and the thought of each hair standing still,
and then, falling.

Tape on my mouth, a horror to remove,
for I will only scream for help.
The trees remind me of starving snakes,
finding me, amorously begging for,
nothing but a break.

Spare the lightbulb.

I feel ropes holding me between two oaks,
I move only as the wind makes them.
If not, surely,
they will die.
They’ll grow old, and have nothing
to keep them standing.
The ropes holding me up will morph to a noose of my hands.
And the snakes will know, intuitively,
that I am there.
They slither like the blood in my veins,
waiting.

Circling me every day, they’re all I can hear.
They’re after me.
They will get to me.
I can only beg through hoping,
otherwise I’m hopeless.

Thoughts like streams,
jokes on you.
The energy will consumer,
the customs you have made.
Jokes on the one with dreams,
the one who brings fear and envy.
All I am is the messenger,
of thought to power.
This isn’t agony.
This is grand.
Something will strike me down,
but in the end,
I will return to this place of solace.

Tired of feeling so,
like the bludgeoning is false.
Memories,
feel as though they're paraphrased.
Jumping from possess to obsess,
the satire of loathing,
only posses the owner of memory.
Ridiculing self, ridiculing self,
righteously juxtaposing pain with
a tyrant.
The one who mourns being one.
Passion has lost its fashion,
but what does it qualify as?
A pained soul with another?
A pained soul destroying another?
Realize this,
the memory changes,
it becomes vague.
But,
does it lose validity?
You're the one who suffers.
No the one who made you.
Treat the end of pain,
like the end of yourself.
A lost,
and dreary,
memory,
not seen clearly.

With a voice so candid,
that feels like scratching the paint
off my canvas of you,
I am left,
trying to see beauty in anything
All I see,
are images of you blessing the world
with your ability to be a part of it.

Helpless and aware and helpless and aware.
Time consumes all flagrant attempts at creating a ******* care.
Without use, you are clung, to the space in between,
the arch of your back and your bedsheet.
The walls eradicate the stasis you have built as your basis that smirks in a ******* CONDESCENDING way. The biggest lie you've been told, in your life, is that your thoughts are the only way.
Wise up to the reality.
Your voice is a mere formality.
But, when it comes back, who is the one you love?
You're stuck between you and what is above.
We worship what is beyond us in these times.
And we blame ourselves for our crimes?
Stand tall,
maybe someday you will be able to crawl
out of this pit.
But you'll still be ****.
You'll stare back at the ceiling,
through it, reality will be revealing.
You are a child,
the world is worthwhile.
But you're scared that what is above.
Will be the hopelessness of what you love.

Hold this monument on a pedestal and watch it mock you.
You are
transparent.
You are
helpless.

All you are,
is a fellow faux
of a personality.
Please don't hurt me.