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Cole Maxwell Apr 2019
Hi, my name is Cole.
Grab a shovel and we'll deepen the hole where I've buried my goals.
They try to blame my soul for the peril untold,
Though, great fortune most of their lives do hold.
Molded after my father I was destined to be cold.
Alone, broken, I folded.
Unspoken moments in silence are just like King Midas,
The opportunity’s gold, but there's still violence way down, deep inside us.
When tribulations unfold, so does my situation.
Find me by myself, impatient,
On a narcotic vacation, wasted.
Taste the medicine I force upon myself on a daily basis.
This explanation only strengthens my self esteem’s annihilation,
So pray damnation is what I need to keep some kind of exhilaration.
Drawn away from elation, I take the bait and go on strike against my ****** up creation.
When I was 15, the world ended around me,
Cops and medics abounding,
The sight surrounding my plight, pathetic,
Regret was surmounting.
Twelve scars on my throat, they said the odds were astounding I made it, but who's counting?
(Plus the one on my stomach where the blood geyser was spouting)
Like intimate sentiments, death attached to me,
I learned how to live with it.
There was a time that this soul had a temple, now, just a tenement.
The second time I played God I succeeded in my ill intent,
Pronounced dead at the scene, my funeral was finally imminent.
Til I opened my eyes and the room was one I'm familiar with.
I was sure eleven Ambien would work for my benefit.
Why am I being kept alive?
It's like there's no possible end to it.
Multiple reasons as to why I am so sick of this living ****.
It's a given: derision and treason purged me of innocence.
I'm immersed in this intricate curse,
Coerced into impotence.
Teasin’ hearses became a profession,
Hurting became obsession,
Depression’s the path I traversed,
Along with aggression.
So you may have a few questions concerning
The wrath I possess.
And when I rise from the ash like Sylvia Plath I'll confess.  
When I emerge from disguise, the sociopath will profess
The explanation for suicide, and the urge to regress.
Cole Maxwell Apr 2019
The tragic path to a self made torment is awakened in me. The inevitable remains paramount to death. Just as with those who cause me pain, I cause them pain as well. The Lost Vision becoming more lost. The undeniable lover questioning her motivation to stay. Such love I regulate within my heart. But still, the strength to carry on fades to black. The biggest struggle I possess at the moment is that of the Lost Vision. The greatest promise I intend to keep is driving the Lost Vision into madness. It fears my departure and careless nature, though through all the emptiness, I do not plan to leave the Lost Vision's life.
I've caused so much pain, so much worry and insecurity.
As if I've stolen a key to the door of their heart, never again to give it back. A prisoner in my own soul; a build up of guilt now from the inevitably caused pain to others from myself. The essence of God still not being discussed, for I wait for that perfect stranger still. He came once, but I lost him amongst the hopelessness. I strive to escape this hole I lie in. But now this hole has become my home, my wasteland, my reality. I can't apologize enough to you, the Lost Vision, for making you feel that I will soon depart. I can reassure you I am not leaving you now.
But still, I cause many people grueling heartache. I am given so much love, so much that it's nearly overwhelming. Yet I still dream of ways to throw it all away.
So many tears I shed over a broken mirror, broken in spirit. It lacks the ability to reflect my happiness. For happiness was also lost to the hopelessness. So for now I continue my days, waiting for the end of heartache.
Cole Maxwell Apr 2019
Within the endless void in which I constantly dwell, I struggle more and more to keep my sanity from escaping me. The more I dwell, the harder it becomes to remain from a vast, parallel reality, which opens up to me freely. My own home, a sanctuary of hate. For myself, for this life I "live." I cannot depend upon myself for happiness and consolation anymore. Only a few others can provide these essentials. The lost vision; the girl by the lake; the undeniable lover. As I listen to ecstatic waters, and look beyond the lake in front of me, I witness the sunset; its wondrous power to bring, give, and nurture life. At this moment, I feel as if I'm waiting. Waiting for that stranger, that perfect stranger, to walk by and discuss the essence of God. The bench I sit upon: empty. God does not provide a soul to bring it warmth. You may ask, "How can the bench be empty if you are perched upon it?" I will tell you, I am no soul bearer. I have given too much of myself to others to have an inspiration or warmth to give to this bench. For I am only temporarily using its space for myself. Those in my life are very much alike. Most are only there for a temporary time. However, there are those who will be present for a much longer time. Unfortunately, the inevitable is the death of a dream. Because even though they are here to console me, I'm afraid they inevitably cause me pain. But nonetheless, if they were not present within my life, I would have no life at all. But what is a life without a soul? Put your head against my chest and you will find there is an absence of sound. I pour my heart out for others, and it keeps me from knowing my self. So for now I will remain, dreaming with a broken heart.
Cole Maxwell Apr 2019
When I was 15, the world ended.
And it wasn't as spectacular as I thought it was going to be.
I had always imagined the sky tearing open and flames of fury would rain down upon us all,
But instead, it was my heart that was torn in half, and the fire only rained down on me.
It took 45 seconds for me to destroy everything that I knew,
and create an entirely different world,
Not only for me, but also for the people that knew me.
I was born again, bore the sin, more than anything horrible I ever felt, I was torn in ten.
Had I put a knife to my throat? Or fell in love?
What's the origin?
And nobody could ever understand it better than the horror itself that closed me in.
But she destroyed the bin,
With me in it and I was never ever sure again.
Like paper shredding under fluorescent tubes, my skin was thin.
Let demons in and they took shelter and then horrid soreness manifested within.
The eyes of the Lord looking down upon the men and women,
And all he could see was that my darkness had surfaced again.
I swore to Him I'd never resort to that sin,
But more than expected I was short of the win,
And lost myself with hopelessness,
My unfortunate friend.
Scorching torture forced me to pretend,
Over and over I retorted the fib with a grin;
Smiled as the lore spread like venom in skin.
The door to the end was open.
Therefore I went in,
And premonitions filled my core,
So I was forced to give in.
Over the course of a decade, the source of discourse caused me to see a red shade of anger.
For what felt like 4 million days I endured the rage,
Simple and plain I was psychotic, in danger,
ignoring the ways
To force myself to have a smile on my face.
It remains insane to me how the blade, when it penetrated,
Gave my skin goosebumps,
The doctor made me feel humiliated.
Sickness in my brain wants to put me in my grave,
OD was the second time I attempted the same.
But the fact of the matter is
The facts are a shame.
And the way that I felt this day,
Brought hope of finding a way,
To rid my head of the voices that haunt me,
Spewing disdain.
Third time's a charm I suppose,
Or at least that's what they say.
Cole Maxwell Apr 2019
There's a time in, dare I say,
Every man's life where he must
Choose between what is wrong
And what is not going to help.
He must be able to see that
What is right will not be the correct answer;
What is wrong will be the path to go.
For in these times, a man will realize that
What he seeks is not for him to obtain,
But acknowledge it as a mirage on the horizon,
Some distance away,
On a course that would seal his fate.
Lost at sea is the man who obtains what he seeks,
For his worth he keeps in his shirt pocket,
Limited by the darkness that surrounds it.
He knows not the detriment that lurks below
As he drowns in his own greed,
Betrayed by the hands of his own god.
Cole Maxwell Mar 2019
The cold wind sings its lullaby
At 3 in the morning when no one can hear.
Untold sins bring up fear, a sigh
Released in the midst of sheer
Boldness. This coldness is clear,
Shoulders held up high,
This old soul smolders, endeared,
Behold the source of the flame, revered.
His own bones deteriorating from self hatred, he owns loanable favors.
Devoted to blatant peer pressure, mere pleasure.
He's caged in like a snake
Surrounded, for days, with four sides in a tank
Clouded by judgment as menacing as sharp fangs.
He wonders what may hide beyond the glass pane,
On this side of the storm, ignorance, like thunder, bangs and
Feeble minds plunder in pain as he gasps at the crass bane.
Alas, shame musters and he cries out in pain,
Disdain and frustration make him lose patience and thus, his veins rupture.
His name the grave mutters in vain,
It stutters insanely.
Utter fear engraves itself in the pavement,
Nothing contains it.
Lust favors reprehensible acts and calls them sensible,
Hence his demons savor his knack for evil’s principle.

Lack of remorse caters to the whim of the artist's reactive nature,
Lately, my fate has shown its true color,
Faded, it’s black,
Signed, the Plain painter.
Trapped in his drawings, his anger strapped like a weapon,
Regret has set in, like
Fangs and claws in your skin.
He questions plain and simple
Objectives he made in civil

His brain he fiddles with.
Lately it's made him lose a bit.
Sanity no longer placed in a state of complacent safety.
Erased from the face of history,
He faces the greatest mystery of faith:
How to catch a butterfly when the forceful wind’s against me?
Admittingly, since the distance presented its ill intentions,
I've witnessed the birth of innocence,
In this was, too, repentance.  
Forgiveness became a gift for me not,
But remains prolific and lame as it brings me pain.
These dreams rot,
Bereft of pristine thought.
Increasing in pressure, serene gestures
Spike at extreme measures, pleasing
A sea of  people just before they reach peak level
Of unequal treatment,
Leaving myself behind, so I Hyde
To appease Jekyll's.
Bereavement embezzles delicate meaning,
Eloquence seeping from my pores,
I'll admit treason,
Bring a stiff reason as to why this ship sinks and  
Reap the benefits for a quick season then right back to being cold.

Keep seeing ghosts but startled demons
Retreat with swift, keen intensity and
Quit seeking evil things to finish me.
Since she impeded with insistence
My fealty conceded, senseless.
Real to me was lethal vengeance,
Begging me to rescind interdependence
And purport to bequeath,
the reader,
Evil menace upheaved on the likes
Of people that deceive the needs of feeble grimace,
Steep and oblong is the course
he takes when absconding with illness,
Mental resilience, a reprobate uncommon
To deal with.
Pain reveals his main appeal,
And still they describe it as brilliance.
Chains of steel retain his will
So in ways he refrains from fulfillment.
Deals he's made with the demons he keeps
Rain shame down on this villain.
He channels wakes of chaos toward
The ones who forsake his plea
And help create his prison.
Envision now a spirit free,
But tortured by his angst,
His rhythm separated him from
The music written,
And shakes him in opposition;
Breaks him of his willful mission.
He hesitates to fill his needs,
Until he feeds the greed of millions,
Putrid schemes induce increasing
Feudal dreams of resilience.
This too precedes the illness.
Entropy must be a must, intensity
Proceeds to injure me with intense
A fence between the mentally demented and a sense so keen
Is all that prevents the intelligent fiend
From relevant being in this
Hellish ravine
Filled to the rim with
Malevolent creeds and devilish seeds.
Prevalent deeds of ill means
Seem to instill an immense severance,
Leaning toward eloquence became the relevance seen around this decadent theme, yet,
The elephant in the room repels the elegant dream from being met.
Soon the bells will ring in hell
And too you'll sing of mere regret.
Those who read his tale of screams
Proceed to nail his coffin shut.
He's intrigued when awful things derail and
Sews the things he reaps.
He leaps, morose, to depths below,
Beneath the hell he knows and keeps.
Retreating poses questions close,
While silent rages creep.
His Queen, he hopes, will save him, though,
She'll only know to sleep.
Her beauty meets his eyes in peace,
But haunts him endlessly.

He wonders what she feels and thinks.
Cole Maxwell Mar 2019
Unlike Drake, we didn't start at the bottom,
We met about midway.
Two people amidst a common problem.
Darkness cloaks this part, at most I'll start to
Coast to the cause of the issues that bother
Cole the most, his heart revokes the thought
Of coming close to ignoring it farther.
I understand like a ghost, I see right through your father,
Voices don't come close to being as
Reprimanding as thoughts do.
They long for your heart to retain as much hatred as they can barter,
Until you can't stand the way that you breath or look at a person the same as you're recalling.
Much to the dismay of Blood,
I had to leave, I was falling,
Alcohol was more important than you all
And for that I'm sorry.
I tried to get away and break my chains
But veins yearn for that which takes the pain
Away and for that I only grew to know more pain.
One thing led to another and still the story's the same,
I've thrown away 5 years of my life to help me dig my own grave.
Amazingly I've made it through to write this story
And say that I've put childish things aside,
And live a better life today.
I support my son and make a living,
Just as Blood may.
As humans we're designed to seek that which
May better our emotional state,
On each individual level.
We chase that which can
Levitate our own knowledge in case there are
Discrepancies at bay.
As people, don't you want to know the full story,
I know your reputation for curiosity precedes you.
If not, why do I not deserve a chance at a sorry?
What means necessary must I take just to have a conversation?
It's quite hypocritical in fact,
But I digress in that partly.
Does trepidation rule over you,
Til you're blind to damnation?
Forevermore, you have risen,
Yet I remain uncomplacent.
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