When I was young,
I used to go to
the museum,
where art was
hung high
on walls—
Higher than
The Hanged Man
on The Hanging Tree.

A painting stood
out in one room,
both beautiful
and terrifying…
The Mona Lisa.

Her essence—
Trapped in her
own framed
prison of hell.
Her skin shines
old gold,
yet etched with
cuts and bruises
underneath Death’s
black robe of sorrow.
Her calm smile
hides a cold secret…

Her dark,
red-veined hair
stretched out
like a river,
yet tangled
down like vines.

Her eyes spoke
her tale the most—
restless and fearful.
Reaching out to
feast attention from
both critics and lost
soul’s eyes,
like Medusa.
I could hear
her echoes.
Almost as if
I heard her
ghost speak
the words—
“Help…”

She reminded me
of my mother…

I used to
play a game
by myself…
A game of
Russian Roulette
every waken night.

Decide my fate—
Make my choice…
Whether to heal—
Or to hurt
again…

A friend once
asked me,

“Why in the
world would
you hurt
yourself?”

Soon in
my lonely
bathroom,
scars bloom
beneath the
weeping moon—

I gave it up…
Gave the blade
away to that friend…
I feel strange
but free to quit,
like I can breathe
another day.
It’s the
End of my
Game…

I woke up alone.
My bones dead cold.
No soul—
Nor ghosts roamed
the endless night.

I follow where the wind blows,
And sat under the stage light moon.
White stars cover the navy
and black blue blanket sky.
Scars on my right
arm starts to bloom,
like flower under the
golden night hour—
And soon, the moon watches
My lonely moments.

The wind cast crooked voices.
Speaking its tale of how one day,
I will be forever trapped under
their abandon shadows—
Forgotten and left to decay.
There I held a small blade—
The blade shines inner hate
beneath the weeping moon.
The wind trace its cold,
crooked word on the sand.

“To become free,
You must draw your first blood—
And soon comes the newborn dawn…”

Yet my shattered heart hesitates.
Slowly breathing,
letting go of the small blade
As I hear creatures howl
my fate,
my fear—
To which falls to silence.
It’s just the moon and I.

To dream
a dream
of hope—
fly away like a bird.
Or to dream
a dream
in empty
nightmarish hell—
where even
the devil
aches?
That’s the
question…

Voice’s broken—
left unheard…
And still,
I think the
unanswered
question…

To dream a
dream to live
and let go,
Or to dream
a dream to die
under my very own
shadows alone?

I hear
her screams
of loneliness
love—
Faint and distant
but caught
in storm.

Venus cries softly,
Like two lovely doves—
Yet her voice
torn between
the dust of
abandon hell
and the
fallen silent stars
dancing across
the midnight skies,
where it shines
her beautiful scars.

I hear
Venus screams—
Her tears drop
like rain,
fear consume
Venus’s mind.
Her storms howl
louder than
Zeus’s thunder—
Yet left unchanged,
unheard.
Her heart,
still fresh—
Yet her soul,
almost left
for dead.

I hear her screams.
Venus burns—
Still, she waits...

Anxiety,
keeps on eating
off of me—
like a disease.

Anxiety,
slicing me with
a sharp knife.
Anxiety,
killing me quietly—

Anxiety,
I feel
The Crooked Man
standing in one corner—
Like Death,
watching me—
waiting…
The ghosts,
haunting me—

Anxiety,
spreading inside
my chest,
stress spilling over—
mind’s a mess.
Anxiety,
killing me
quietly—

Anxiety,
Pulling me in tightly,
wrapping its rope
around my throat—
choking me…
I can’t breath,
I can’t see,
I scream—
Anxiety,
silenced me.

There,
left hung on
The Hanging
Tree…

I can’t eat.
I’ve been falling
deep from not eating.
Heart’s aching,
right hand shaking,
taunted by scattered voices—
Slowly consuming my insides
like a parasite.

I feel too sick,
haunted by the fear
of being forgotten—
Left rotting alone
under the cold,
abandoned
wasteland nights—
Afraid to lose
someone,
like you.
Self hate crawls
around my stomach
and cuts old deeper wounds
like a sharp blade—
Maggots feeding off my scars
filled with shattered memoirs
all over my tired,
puppetted body.

I can’t eat…
I think there’s
something wrong
with me.