I once heard of a man named Pascal who wagered that my soul was better off in the hands of a myth than left to my own devices, and as I lay here chained to my bed with my demons pulling at my ribcage I'm starting to think he was right.

Self obession will be the death of Me.

Friedrich Nietzche once wrote that god was dead. It was a fictional death befitting Nietzche's fictional god, but as my eyes scanned the pages his words rang true. I am the world's ugliest intellectual -- stabbing at the eternal witness with shattered fragments of his own reflection.

This muse of mine
Remains silent and invisible
And is no less intense for that
I still write to her
Tell her of my dreams and my pain
And she is part of both of these

This muse of mine
May be no more than a ghost
But she is still my only truth
The one that owns me
For all my ****** and damaged past
For all my pointless future

This muse of mine
May be unreal or gone
Yet still I hold on
And still there'll be no other
Because within my muse
Hopelessness and hope
Have me enthralled

                              By Phil Roberts

You were like wandering a dark alleyway with only a trashcan fire to guide me. And when the light revealed your face, there was already such little left inside me that when I broke my flesh and poured my blood all the world could see me pass over in rememberance of you.

I don't try to die anymore, and I thought my mother would appreciate that. She's still hung up on hoping I come to know Jesus before i do die, whenever that is. What she doesn't understand is that I know Jesus well. I was Jesus. I remember the faces of the centurions in my mind as they drove sharp objects through my wrist to atone for the sins of my abuser. I remember the days entombed, when I wallowed in the darkness with festering wounds. I remember the ressurection, when the angels removed my ******* and brought me once more into the light. I suppose she has a right to worry, though. I could get in to a car accident or something.

Lying between sticky sheets in a hospital bed, contemplating my lifes story. Wondering, "Who could be so cruel as to write it on the ceiling in blacklit fuschia heiroglyphs?" Cooked psychosis crazy. Though that's a little insensitive, I suppose.

Lying between coarse sheets on a locked ward, contemplating two knots atop the door. Wondering, "Is there a place in The Father's Kingdom for the self-eradicated to lick each other's wounds?" Raw reality sane. Though that really isn't much better, I suppose.