As I trudge upon the path

with vigor and conviction

I stumble upon a small headstone

with the faintest chiseled inscription

-

“Here lies a man with wrath in his heart,

He knew not love or those who gave it

He said life was just a stupid game

for those moronic enough to play it”

-

As I ponder this enigma

this brilliant man and his morbid stigma

I regret I hadn’t met this man

yet I felt as if I’d known him,

a glorious eerie feeling creeps over my spine

and commands me to adore him.

-

It seems I should annihilate

what those seem to exsacerbate

and then I should come and create

what those seem to procrastinate.

-

I’ll destroy what’s highly regarded,

starting here in this casket garden,

take a hammer to this sepulcher,

the to society, the bleeding ulcer,

-

It will never end until I’ve infected

All of those who’d have me corrected,

and I will never stop believing

what my heart is always grieving.

This suicidal society

is one giant ******* commodity.

-

And as I trudge along the path

with elevated vigor and conviction

the corpse garden’s sweet song of silence

rocks me into submission.

-

As I dream this beautiful, dreadful dream,

I am calmed by this sensation:

There will come a time when I rest here,

but until then,

I fight damnation.

There once was a desolate heart,

whose beating would never start,

But along she came

To disappear again,

In my dreams, she masters this art.

-

One day she came and smiled at me

More beautiful than the shining sea

And then in my chest,

My hopeful breast,

My heart drummed a loving creed.

-

O, to the pain I feel inside,

How I wish it would subside,

But I love the passion

I have to your faction,

Of your loss, I am petrified.

Tell me that I am wrong:
Lie and say the pain will go away
And that the depression will subside,
And further, that there is belief behind my cries,
That my aggression might one day not be my life,
In a world so ridiculously fake,
That I must lie in bed at night awake.
-
Love Does Not Exist.
It is only disgusting lust that does persist.
Romantic Wishes And Dreams Are All Dead.
Rotting in the abyss, shot in head,
Put to pasture and lead astray,
Suffocated with barbwire, its heart decayed.
-
Intimacy With Your "Other Half" Is False.
But we persist and try to find anyone with a pulse.
You Will Never Find Your Revolting "Soul Mate",
A false concept made by those scared of their own fate.
-
You Will Die Alone And Scared.
We search and find anyone and are content,
To live with each other in misery until it ends,
Then remember why we "loved" them to begin,
And cry ourselves to sleep again and again,
Until across there runs another coquette,
And the tears evaporate, so **** it,
We are such God ****** hypocrites,
We say we know "love", I'm Sick Of It.
We forget as soon as we lay
With another the next day,
The person left before,
Nameless and no more adored,
We Need A Plague, An Extermination,
Of This Sickness, My Generation.

If ever there was such a night as tonight,
I wish it to be reflected in starlight,
It’s dark and breezy out this eve, my dear,
And the world’s all quiet, nothing to fear.
-
It’s odd to think of how often I lay
Upon my bed reflecting the day,
And once your name and face come to mind,
I get lost in daydreams for quite some time,
Sometimes when I hear you voice,
Something inside just shouts rejoice,
I’m not sure what this means,
But I like it.
-
Further still, as I come to know
You more, it’s hard to stay in tow,
I find myself smiling with every laugh,
Your voice as calming as a palace bath,
My eyes amazed by every photograph,
I hope each word is not the last,
I’m not sure what this means,
But I like it.
-
As I sit and wonder if I’m heading right,
I feel ok without much might,
Because I sort of believe in time,
An idea, more or less, will grow the vine,
I think of all the things so fine,
I would love to be able to see your mind.
I’m not sure what this means,
But I do like it.

"Every now and again, it feels as if life begins to end"
But on the rare occasion where, lost  in memory again,
I think of being young and finding comfort in the rain,
And growing up so quickly, that nothing is the same.
-
A gentle flash in mind back to those summer days,
To the sweet taste of tea, to the Mississippi waves,
I remember a hollow road betwixt Magnolia trees in bloom,
The oily green leaves, and cloudy white bulbs do my mind consume,
Walking up to school with childlike innocence in tow,
Once happy with everything, a feeling since then stowed,
I seem to recall my first best friend,
He was thirteen, I was but nine then,
I had found my first wisdomless idol,
And sorrowed life had yet to trifle,
With anything yet passed to me,
With roots like this, how could one hate everything?
The warm grass itchy with Saturday's chores,
The sun loved the shadow that I now abhor,
I miss this careless beauty right to my core,
What was once my  home, Alabama, I adore.

If Daedalus built us a labyrinth

Of chambers with beds, and smells of mint,

I’d never try to leave or escape,

I’d stay with you, it be our fate.

-

Your enticing scented perfume,

Catches my nostrils as I gaze at you,

You glance back, seductive and robed,

Your shoulders revealed, the rest unknown,

Until a slight twitch adorns the floor,

With the garb you wore before,

Your lingerie lingers there now,

Across your backside and ***** endowed,

Your back is still there turned to me,

Morals become my enemy.

-

I walk slowly, creep behind,

I take your hips and you take mine,

I feel your nails dig in my sides,

Pain is not to be belied,

Turned around now, look at me,

In my eyes, what do you see?

Feel my hand gently stroke

That precious cheek of yours to stoke,

The fire that internally burns,

Inside ourselves, the passion churns,

My hand softly grasps your throat,

Your pupils widen, you are smote,

A short gasp, an inhale of breath,

I adore seeing your heaving chest,

Surprised, aroused, you grab my hair,

We break something beside us,

I don’t care, we don’t care.

-

Your *** in my hands, your legs wrapped around,

I put you on a table, throw you down,

You smile and bite your lip and look up,

Joyous repetitions of “****, oh ****”,

You bite my collar bone and shoulder,

I think “Oh, how I love to explore her”,

Pandora’s Box knows nothing of this,

I feel, as I hold down your hands with clenched fists.

-

To the chamber that promises silken sheets,

You and I alone, who needs “discreet”?

Sensual moans from my Aphrodite,

You call me Ares, and quiver slightly,

We've now become quite volatile,

You feel no need to hide your guile,

You bury my face a midst your chest,

Smiling lightly, pointing to your crest,

I serve you well,

As far as listening can tell,

You happily return the favor,

This moment in my mind, I’ll savor,

A fallen angel is angel nonetheless,

You look up and I must confess,

The sight of it, so great to behold,

That I stand you up, and around, and fold

You across the bedside chair,

Alas, the pleasure doth find you there.

I am yours and you are mine,

Behind our door records no time.

-

When I bend to receive a kiss,

Ah, the touch of your perfect lips,

Your taste, it’s addictive to say the least,

I cannot stop, your tongue can’t cease,

Then you recoil and I silently beg,

You then submit, and tighten your legs,

I kiss your neck, hear a deep breath in my ear,

You have the power of my mind to steer,

Your hands and nails find my back,

And then, in ecstasy, you attack.

What must be hours go by and then,

I feel from inside, your body tightens,

We are both together this moment,

There is a small flood after the levee’s exploded,

You lean back, dragging nails, and scream,

Heavy exhales as if we were breathing steam,

You lay atop, beautiful and breathless,

After all, we are quite reckless,

Feeding on our insatiability,

We lay here kissing awaiting re-ability,

We are lost in each other’s flesh,

And mind, and heart, and we both have fetched

A longing lust that took command,

Without daring reprimand.

-

This is Adam and Eve’s paradise,

Without The Apple, it will suffice,

This night feels as if it will never end,

We take each other again and again.

My strength has gone,
My soul has perished,
I lost my home,
The Light was vanquished.
Dystrophic sounds,
The brutal cacophony
Of silence and longing,
It's a bludgeoned symphany.
-
Caressing the cheek,
Fingers through her hair,
Smiling subtlely,
Then I awake without air.
The wind eats at each bone
The rain chills them still,
And what good is this home
Without her will?
The imagination runs wild
With dreams of perfection,
The qualities of flaws,
The insurrection.
Grieving turmoil and, alas, it has,
Been determined to happen as fast,
It creeps along its vertices,
Stoking fire of improbability,
Fending for myself, alone,
It seems to me I must here drone,
Wasting away every single chance,
To break free of a pallid trance,
I've always escaped my heart of thoughts,
I've always ended what all have brought,
I've always ended what songs she sings,
I've always brought about suffering,
I've always snuffed my last candle-light
I've always gripped the ledge too tight,
I've always choked the life from myself,
I've always drowned my sorrows in Hell,
I've always heard of my downfall,
I've always scorned the love in all,
I've always been plagued with bitter hate,
Although,
I'll always hate love, and love it still,
I'll always wish for someone until...
I'll always lust for something great
I'll always rush for my own fate,
I'll always need the hand to hold,
Whatever in my life may happen in the cold.

I choke on words that matter the most,
For fear of their losing meaning.
I stumble over actions I should have carried out
And then deny my original feeling.
I carry along with me a heart of hatred
So evil, so destitute.
It makes me only dream more of solace,
Of two souls imbued.
When "she" and "her" become "mine",
I will only sing songs to her,
Dedicated in rhyme and loss,
My eyes, an aquifer.
-
The lonliness is a waning prison,
The despair is a refilling chalice,
I drink from it repeatedly,
And force it down with violent malice.
I bring it upon myself,
Because I cannot see within,
I am never more than what I expect,
Where could I ever begin?
-
I ask for an angel next to me
At night to keep me still,
One for me to hold, cherishing
Her docile lull until
She yet awakens each morning
And drowns me in goddess-like trance,
One cannot make decisions
Until one has his own stance.
I know not where I am going,
Nor what I will find along
The lonesome road I walk each night,
A road where I'd rather not be alone.
A hand to hold, a strength to give,
I want and need to feel,
But inside it burns, it hurts even,
Hatred is all that is real.
So my angel, be you out there,
Waiting so patiently,
If I'm allowed to yet meet you,
Let us meet then, presently,
Stop me before the abyss is my soul
And I'll try and sew on the wings I ripped off
My back, while you walk among my thoughts,
I will dream of you and I, while my nightmares wonder,
And think of all the words I should've said and fought.

It seems as if the leader is quelling the storm,
Bringing issues alight that would, in other places, not warrant,
It seems as if the people hug and hold hands,
They sing songs, they speak highly of all and dance,
The heads remain firmly in the sand,
Objectively blind to all other lands,
It seems as if the tension has snapped to bring about
Peace and love.
-
Speak your mind, swallow a bullet.
Cooperate conglomerate, sacrifice your fears for propaganda,
Spare the rod, spoil the child,
We are owned without realization,
You can’t even begin to understand.
Youth in revolt, the government spies,
Drone strike your own and wash your hands,
We detain citizens in an act of anti-patriotic terrorism.
This is fascism with two choices every four years,
A system of fictitious democracy and flawed capitalism,
Remains upon the grounds of tribulation and false control.
The sheep control the wolves, the wolves are brainless.
Blood money and cigars that cost more than you’ve made in a year
Bring about our destruction.
We take it like a latex slave awaiting the crop,
We deserve everything we’ve been given because we’re without thought.
I’ve seen soldiers destroy innocent people,
I’ve seen politicians bought for fine dine and arrogant suits.
I’ve seen the weak die for no reason other than a gamble.
I’ve seen you all mindless watching the television.
I’ve seen the way you act as if this government owes you.
I’ve seen you not think at all.
You breathe and waist air, you continue to push
I resist the urge to exist, I can not wait to die,
“Freedom through Death”, a ******* lie,
No one has money, You only get as much freedom as you can buy.

Something is different, her smile is rare,
What I give to see it upon a face so fair,
She cries at night, she doesn’t know I hear,
I wish I knew what she may fear.
-
It festers at me, I know it’s my doing,
Of anyone else, I bring all ruin,
She no longer sleeps through the night,
She leaves the bed to stand outside.
-
Fathoms deep in her own head,
I hear her speak softly, her words lessened,
If at all she speaks at first,
I wait upon each ******* word.
-
The fire in her eyes has been quenched to me,
The tragic loss to beautiful artistry,
For them I’ve doted upon very cold nights,
A shell of what she was, my own soul I fight.
-
We used to walk about the streets,
The empty boulevard and speak of dreams,
We have since stopped, she has no time,
I understand, disturbed she is of this heart of mine.

My life is a brilliant and vivid mosaic of failures. If depicted horizontally, it would span countless walls, each with its own tapestry. Intertwined in each image would be a visage of myself in yet another battle of me, metaphorically David, and the vastness of the woven problem, here named Goliath. The only difference however, I don't succeed. My slingshot, as it were, isn't good enough.
     "Almost" is a callous and cold word, however it is the most veril word I know. It shouldn't just be something on my body like a tattoo, but rather etched painstakingly into my hardest bones. Always. Always "Almost" is not a fulfilling way to live.
     My Father once said something along the lines of "The only way I wouldn't be proud of you or that I would be disappointed in you is if you did something or made choices that lead to your unhappiness." With that, I feel as though he couldn't have been proud of me in quite some time, and further, there is no evidence that it will change. I am unhappy all of the time. I am disappointed in myself.
     I am afraid, fearful, of the hatred inside myself at times. I try and use it to my advantage, to prove my "worth", to try and do better at the current task (whatever it may be at the time). But as it usually happens, I get so angry, even vengeful, with no explanation. I sit and think about it, come to nothing, and am scared of what I am becoming.
     I am breathing, organic garbage that, because of sentience, assumes too much of, and from, my existence. I am a ******* paradox. I am realistic but full of wishes, longing for what I know does not exist; I am pessimistic, yet full of hopes, or false hopes rather, that I know fullheartedly are hubris and lost time. Whenever I need logic, emotion takes control. Whenever I look for my heart, my mind conceals its help.
     I believe in absolutely nothing but who I think I am, but I doubt myself to my bitter, black core.
I have achieved nothing with what I have been given (everything) and therefore deserve nothing that I have.
     I Am A Fake. I Am A Lie. I pretend to understand, to know, to help, to listen, but I have no idea what the **** I'm doing, who the **** I am, or why the **** I'm even here as undeserving as I am. With that, what right have I at all to "help" anyone else when I, myself, have no idea where my words will lead them? That itself makes me worse than half of the people that have killed others because at least they know who they are and what they were doing.
     I find it hard to believe that I, personally, was crafted in the image of God because I can't imagine that I resemble (in spirit, mind or matter) anything like the Perfect Being that I love and pray to. I am handcrafted debris, trash, attempting (out of place) to be something more.
     I was once told by someone I truly loved, "How can you love someone if you don't love yourself?" It's pretty easy. You first look at them, think of all the things they do and all the things they represent that lead to them making you happy, and you fall in love with that. it isn't a choice, you just do. I do nothing that makes me happy successfully, in the end, I try and fail consistently whereas someone I love is victorious repeatedly just by being them self. Why wouldn't you love someone for making you happy, yet love yourself in spite of your inability to do so?
     I don't believe anything I've ever encountered or experienced in my, as of yet, short life has prepared me for the utmost feeling of loneliness that creeps like the most dark and shadowy oppression. No cigarette is long enough, no vat of bourbon deep enough to escape that thought. Even in upbeat company that fact lingers, and of it, I am afraid.
     Why must I settle and "stay the course"? Why hold onto a sinking ship? I don't mean in terms of living versus dying, I mean in terms of living in insufferable struggle versus changing the reality. Why is this made to seem so impossible?
     Why am I in constant debt before even being old enough, experienced enough, or brave enough to even make decisions with that debt as a possible outcome?
     Since I was old enough to formulate my own opinions of the world I live in, it's been the epitome and meter of one resounding conclusion: "I will try my best and fail, suffer, but in doing this, I will have no choice but to think one day it will get better, and I can hope in my time of struggle that when that day comes, I Might Be Able To Be Happy.
     I'm in love with someone who is half a country away. She even knows, She might even feel the same, but it is for naught. I justify this by telling myself every "writer" needs a Muse.
     I lack the natural talent required to achieve my dreams in this current world. I was born with a gift I should have kept the receipt with; something I could have traded for something more realistically useful.
     Those closest to me have no idea who I am. They are the only thing that glues my sanity, and I'm fearful if they fully knew what I am, they'd leave.
     I've condensed some of these thoughts and feelings into spoken words to those I trust the most, hoping and praying they might say this is normal, that everyone goes through this, that we are all fighting the good fight. Their deaf ears betray their silent mouths.
     The rhythm in music, the voices in plays, the words to poems, the flow of my pencil, are all I have to escape this solitary confinement. But upon realizing the only things I have to help me feel "normal" are inanimate and incapable of understanding, it only further drives me into the chasm.
     I have become everything I hate. A petulant, assuming, and undeserving child ******* about his life when it's not even fully begun, and worse, has been given everything along the way and pitifully has done nothing with ******* any of it.
     I look at my Father and my Mother, and mouth agape, am stunned at their character, their perseverance. Compared to the two people who made me, I am grovelling ****, with absolutely nothing to complain about.
     I have never made a serious decision in my life unless I fully knew the only outcome before the decision was made. This makes me a coward. Logically it might make sense, but this is real life, you shouldn't do that, and **** logic.
     I always have an excuse, I'm not a real man, I'm afraid to take a fall because it's just another piece of the prosecution's evidence pointing to the guilt I possess in relation to my long record of failures.
     I'm cast outside "normalcy" because I don't believe in society. I'm not afraid to die, death actually intrigues me, a lingering curiosity. I adore the macabre because I believe there is truth of humanity in the darkness that everyone ignores exists. We profit and capitalize on procedures that **** thousands, but because it's not us they target, and usually not until the long run, we pay no mind. I believe that more than half of our so called "society", myself included, are no better in most senses than Dahmer or Panzram. At least they were honest about the monsters they were.
     I'm obsessed with thing that don't matter; theories that wouldn't make a difference in the world if proven true, questing for a Love that I rightly don't deserve and that likely doesn't exist, searching for acceptance of anyone but at the same time and equally, in paradox, caring about none of it, especially myself.
     Most nights instead of praying to God as I intend to do, I find myself wondering if I deserve His forgiveness. I know, on some level or another, if the Holy Father, Himself, came to me at any time during those sleepless nights, I would not have an even close to decent answer arguing for His forgiveness, but rather, a full of tears and chopped up, pathetic plea for it anyway.
     I dream of someone to love romantically just for the sake of being able to love someone for exactly who they are and because doing so makes me happy. It has been so long passed of this being even close to a chance of reality, that the thought of ***, or even intimacy, without that love does not even interest me anymore.
     I'm twenty years old and every job I work wants one-hundred percent of my soul and time. Is this normal? Am I not allowed to be a responsible but stupid kid for a while before I have to settle with the reality of a mundane and mind/body numbing job that takes so much of your day that at night you can only imagine the freedom of sleep rather than having a spare few precious seconds for thinking that dying has the upside of never having to show up to that ******* place again? I have no problem with working at all, in fact, I appreciate anything that has a general task and goal that is monotonous enough to keep my mind focused just enough that anything I've written here, the things that upset me, don't leak in and ruin the day, but realistically, how can I give my soul to cutting lawn? To stocking a ******* shelf? I am part of the worst generation on Earth so far, I have potential to be better than ninety--nine percent of the drooling unfortunate vertebrae we call "society", and this is what I'm supposed to wake up for? If this is what I need to accept and I'm just going crazy, fine, I accept it, but in doing this, you need to accept that if I'm crazy, you're batshit ******* nuts.
     I find myself not ever wanting to wake up. I'm not even close to suicidal, I don't want to die yet, I just can't see a logical point, or an emotional reason for any of this nonsense to continue. Can anyone identify with that? Don't misconstrue and worry yourself with me being honest with myself, I DO wake up. I wash my face, but I look in the mirror afterwards and ask "Why?", and I get the day over with anyway so I can hurry up and get home to get ready to do everything over again exactly the same the next day the exact same way, the only difference being the date on the calender and the minutes of the one life I get slowly building themselves into hours and days that will now be an empty black void of memory in my head that could've been used for something worth remembering. Why? Why settle to sulk and squander in ***** and depression when you haven't even tried to bathe in gold and happiness?
     I hate almost everything. The way things are, have been, will be. I hate the faceless sheep that complain yet attempt nothing to change their circumstances. If there is one thing to look on with pride, it is at least I'm better than that. At least if I failed, by default it means I ******* tried.
     I lack the capacity and the capability to voice these kinds of thoughts. As well-spoken as I am, I choke the hardest when I try to speak about any of them. I have to scribble and usually type them, and further, put them in a format a possible reader might be able to understand. Alas, I have failed at that as well. I put my heart and thoughts into my poetry, but anything resonating from within me that I've pounded into the countless pages I've written is lost in a sea of meter and rule-abiding rhetoric as well as aesthetically and audibly pleasing metaphors and rhyme-schemes rather than just blunt structure. No one reads anything with nothing left to the imagination. And justly so, why would they? Why try to decipher someone's heart if it doesn't also apply to you? Why read an ending if you know you won't like it unless it has "happily ever ******* after"? Why not emulate the thoughts and endure the cramping in the thumb an forefinger if it's not something you already know or something you clicked "like" on to impress the friend with the independent mind that was the one who told you to read it in the first place? I may sound bitter, I am, and hateful, but at least I am not a liar.
     If I had one absolute thing, one pure thought, one controversial heading, one cry to all who have ever asked me and I have failed to explain it better; If I can leave you with one thing; If it were possible for me to speak one line to the empty church at my funeral when I die someday and move on to peace, it would be this:
The Words I Seek With Which I Wish To Express My True Misery Elude Me.

I rested my elbow upon my desk,
Thinking of times my mind could caress,
I came up with naught, and was impressed
With all the thoughts I could detest,
I sat and swept throughout my mind,
With what I could eventually find,
In peace, in life, in hatred, in kind,
And I fell through the cracks of spiteful time.
I hated how we spent time being oblivious and lolling,
This kept me forever,
And The Rain Kept Falling.
-
She walked along a road with bare feet,
Hoping some help there she would meet,
She evaded the devil in the house she escaped,
Her torso was lacerated, knees were scraped,
She was forced to perform for this man of hate,
He watched as he forced her to *******,
He ***** her, over, again and again,
She cried for help, to break free of his sins,
She wished for death but it wouldn't come,
She wished for just one chance to run,
Now being chased like a prisoner of old,
He would find and punish her for being so bold,
Her captor, with vigor, saught to mutilate,
this "little *****" for being late,
Upon finding the cell at where she was chained
Vacant, he saught to force the change,
He endeavored to find her with malicious will,
In vain hope, she hoped the police would ****
This ******* who had tied her up
And repeatedly forced her to sup
Upon the remains of his countless others,
That he had captured and forced on eachother,
She was found three days later with a bullet in her head,
And carved in her torso "the ***** is dead",
The syndrome, the sickness is all but enthralling,
She looked for hope but
The Rain Kept Falling.
-
Dismal, he sat and contemplated,
The way his life had reverberated,
He thought of the children his wife took from him,
She lied to her husband and put lust above him,
He was the best father that anyone could tell,
He loved his children, would do anything for them.
But because his wife had stolen their lives,
He couldn't sleep at all, but cried,
She escaped justice by pleading insanity,
She bragged of it later, bathing in vanity,
He decided that with nothing left,
To live for, except the greed for death,
That he would find and take her soul,
Send her to Hell and then control,
Every aspect of his suicide,
And stop her, being "sanctified",
He crept at night to her abode,
And then proceeded to invade her home,
He began by gagging her and tying her to posts,
Then pulling each extremity until, severed from host,
He ripped her apart for what she stole,
Then slit her throat to watch the flow,
Until the last bit of red-dripping evil,
Exited her body while she shook unstable,
Blank, his face, held no emotion,
But to this malice, he held devotion,
He had hoped this unholy retribution
Would spare his tears and be solution,
Alas, he was wrong, nothing was solved,
His children were still dead, rotting, embalmed,
Some nights he could hear his children calling,
He then took his life.
And The Rain Kept Falling.
-
This endless, boundless, ocean of rain,
The mist it created, like blood and feigned,
The recreation of hope and joy,
Rather, it only increased in ploy,
It never ended and still rains today,
Think of this while you laugh and play,
We live for no reason and surely die,
You will never leave alive,
For reasons unsure, we keep on stalling,
And ignore the fact
That The Rain Keeps Falling.

Another lie upon your lips,
I tasted it with our last kiss,
It seemed so vague,
Now much more clear,
That you, nor I, should now be here,
You find comfort in my hemorrhaging
I can’t help but smile you pretty thing,
So ugly behind that beautiful face,
Contempt finds me upon disgrace,
I twist the knife myself, what’s worse,
I welcome it, for what it’s worth,
I can’t help but notice that you twitch
Whenever you can pull a stitch,
A piece of me that leaves you vexed,
I’ve no empathy, not so complex,
And yet you pick at the infection
So vehement in your doomed defection,
Just to see if I there halt,
Awaiting some cryptic result,
Some declaration of my love lost,
Some tears perhaps, a rose to toss,
But if I were capable of salting this earth,
I would’ve done with you dispersed,
Spread you throughout this lying land,
You’d be at home, just as you planned,
In my chest there resides hate,
Like Azathoth lying in wait,
It must be lulled, kept sedate,
Until, as now, it stirs awake,
For you it bites at bit to take,
It is that which God can not unmake,
No conundrum or mistake,
I will take that which you can not replace,
And if it came to that last kiss,
If even there was no consequence
I still would see you drown in ****
Than taste that lie upon your lips

Injured, Infected,

Your severe laceration

Has betrayed you yet.

December, a vision,
A most wise decision,
I believe a derision
Left us all alone,
Nothing between us,
No one could have seen us,
This event completes us
And leads us along,
My mind was so clouded
And as we were shrouded,
The rest left confounded
And sent to atone,
To seek willing penance,
To break their dependence
To find our ascendance
An encompassing throne,
I seek, we yet make it,
Deciding to break it,
Knowing not what’s at stake yet,
We sought a true home.
But finding revulsion
Furthered compulsion
Our hearts’ errosion
A broken gramaphone.
No memory corrected,
No statue erected
We became infected
With our words in tone,
I looked o'er shoulder,
No longer could hold her,
Or either composure,
Left a haunting moan.
Seeing not corrected,
My soul now indebted,
Forever inspected,
Silencing a groan,
I walked as if courted,
My love, I aborted,
To see you contorted,
My dear, so distorted,
I find self remorseless
Morbid, forsworn it,
Disgusting discourses,
All else but abhor it,
It seems so alluring,
Though mildly incurring,
All but securing
A life worth enduring,
I’d say it was the last thing that I said in this world,
But that’s just a paradox, and a lie beyond that.

In a myriad of countless faults, I hide under vague words and a morbid recourse of sordid worded prose. I rarely am understood in the writing, which I normally expect (not in self pity, mind you) because that specific outlet is the only way I know to unleash what I feel and at the same time, understand more of myself. It isn’t necessarily for anyone else. I am a coward, burying my confusing thoughtstreams and heartrhythms in to a metaphorical and vague tomb, masoned and built with rot-brick and acidic ichor as caulk.
　　Let’s be clear; I am not a perfect person. On an average day, I don’t particularly think of myself as even a good person. Sashays of brevity and a courtly manner may indicate a misunderstood and polite soul, and to an extent, I grant that this is true in the sense that I never wish to push my inner self on anyone. However, beyond and inside the carefully crafted facade of courteousness and the feigned smile, I am an abysmal vat. I am a cavity consisting merely of rage, indifference, and unwholesomeness. This is not an admirable trait, something I have never been or will be proud of, and is said as informative as possible rather than in an attempt to intimidate or distill fear, so you may have an understanding of how I feel the things I do as the topics are discussed here throughout.
　　I feel it necessary to begin and end with love. More the idea of it, really. The idea of love is beautiful and enticing, but if I have ever felt it before, I know the pain of losing it far outweighs the joys within it. I want and most wish to be the “writer”, the “poet” even, to describe what I feel for love and yet, it slips through my fingers like water through mesh; Slow enough that I can see it, feel it, know it’s there, but fleeting and never remaining.I yearn for it badly in various forms, because like any other imperfect being, I crave it. The feeling of being loved is one thing, a momentous and great thing, but the knowledge that you love something honestly and purely out of your own volition is a feeling I desperately want to be akin with. I long to be able to put the words together (and trust me, I know a fair amount of words) to describe what I feel about this sensation, of how much I want this sensation, but each time, I fail and fall on the grounds of repetitive and likely plagiarized folly. In an attempt to share the wanton feeling of acceptance in the arms of another human being, I succeed in only deprecating myself and pushing further away in to my own self-hating chasm as I realize that I have again, fallen a bit short of the message I had tried to convey.
　　With all my might and will combined, I will sit for hours and think of a new way to describe the beauty of one’s eyes, or the curve of a jaw, even the floating melody of the voice, but what I describe has been penned before and better from their hands than mine. I discuss the unwilling, devout feeling of being alone, romanticized and dressed up for the show, to entertain in some form, yet in the end, all I can say to myself in this modern world after the verses are written is “I guess I’m pretty lonely.” It is some form of irony in itself, I feel, that so many of the greatest people I know can elaborate on loneliness in better terms than I, while being completely happy with the person they love. I must also grant that there is a flutter of bitterness in me from that, as I slightly envy that ability and situation.
      The women have come and gone, many mutual agreements, some unfortunate endings, but as I exist today, I find myself wanting more than this. I want not to have someone give themself to me exactly, but to give someone a piece of myself. Perhaps they can show me what it means to feel something other than what’s inside right now. I am understanding of the the fact that at this point, this may seem like whiny tripe, but I admit that it feels as if a bit of weight has lifted in being able to finally put in to words a feeling that causes more than moderate struggle in my head. I have never been afraid to die, or had a fear of regretting “not living”, I’m actually quite curious about death, but I’ve recently found within myself that I would honestly and contently prefer to not end life on the word, “alone.”

As I maintain the whip,
As I kneel upon the ground,
I strike myself, not in sin,
But as eternal man profound,
-
I grip the cat’o’nine-tails,
Ever it has been sharper,
I bless my back in welts and wails,
Until I feel no longer.
-
Fifty lashes strong now,
No sin had been committed,
The longing to feel just something,
For love to find, be fitted,
-
O’er and o’er I feel the sting
O’er and o’er I’m branded,
For the darkness inside of me,
For the sorrow I’ve commanded.
-
Ninety lashes, still not feeling,
Swelling, my tongue I’ve bitten,
Until the hopelessness in my heart…
Is dead and long be ridden.
-
Adrenaline coursing and still no pain,
I’ve conquered all but you,
The questions in my heart are somber,
Your face in my mind is glued.
-
One hundred and twenty strokes now,
And forever still seems far away,
Overcoming this paradox,
To curse this mental pain away.
-
I strive for physical touch of blade,
For emotionally I am torn,
I’ve felt nothing until you,
Since the day I was born.
-
A wretched sense of memory,
Caresses my cheek and I
Rip apart myself with malice,
For this nastalgia defied.
-
I wrap the shroud around me,
The thin linnen to my flesh fuses,
I tear it quickly without flinching
Off my gashes and bruises.
-
Still nothing has fluttered,
In the pain recepters,
I wonder how my life could,
Ever be this disevered.
-
It aches and moans with cracks and groans,
My whip, serrated, ne’er faulters,
My robe in flagellation,
Lays down my blood at aulter.
-
One hundred and fifty after the shroud,
I confess I could strike harder,
Perhaps it decidedly best,
If I think myself of fodder.
-
Nightmares are but where I dream,
Yet dream of this, I don’t.
If I were spied upon, I guess,
They’d beg me stop, I won’t.
-
The shroud now soaked with blood and flesh
And false hopes of years of rot,
This punishment is not what it seems,
It is not one to be fought.
-
The outline cry for oil dipped rope,
Has not this pain be stopped,
Moreso however I do fear,
That your love for me has dropped.

A wandering woman passed me today
And she was wearing your perfume,
Memories flooded my mind
Like a broken decrepit levee.
My emotion was withering away,
And I remembered our lit room,
The laughing and laying without time,
And then my heart grew heavy.
-
Blackened and purged,
You left traceless and a ghost,
A spectre that forsakes the shadows,
I see you when I needn't most.
Your darkened trails
That linger in the frigid mist
Remain spectral and withered,
Waning like the wind, so brisk.
The scent followed me home,
And here I now can't stay,
For pride and self loathing
Have caused all this decay.
I must bring about a solution
For this to be forgotten,
I must hope to breathe a new perfume,
And for happy life to be lost in.

You will be missed, friend,

Yet your life has just begun,

You are forever.

As I sit here completely alone,

I ponder solemnly and wait for you,

I wait for your voice to call me home,

Waiting for you to miss me too.

Waiting for your thoughts to roam

Of me and our sweet solitude

Unless if you are now happy,

I am content in misery.

-

You, my dear, possess a skill

The fires in me burn as hot as before,

Nothing occurred here has broken my will

I just hope thy love has restored

Without you, the emptiness shall not be filled

For you, I beg upon the floor.

Unless if you are now happy,

I am content in misery.

-

I miss every breath and sound

I hope that you do as well,

To lose a love that is so profound,

I’d rather be in Hell.

There is something in you that shakes my ground

And that love you gave me befell

Unless if you are now happy,

I am content with misery.

-

These visions of memories are constant,

They are heaven in my own head,

There is something about you

That I have never felt before

I can’t help the overwhelming feeling,

That pulses through me every day

I wont let you leave my mind,

Please don’t let me fade away.

If every night ended the same
And I drowned in my own blood again,
If the moon did not coincide this night
I might never again be quite all right.
To feel this level of breathless dread,
I feel the light dimming again.
I can't stop coughing from choking back tears,
Never so much pain in all these years,
I tried so hard to create a world thus far
To keep us happy in a room this dark,
That every time I bite my tongue
The ladder we climb loses a rung,
And each instance my eyes close in the daunting night
I find myself hoping it's their last time
Fluttering faintly before an eternal rest,
I shudder anticipating my last agonizing breath.

Pull your blanket above your head at night

and you might feel comfort in the dark.

-

I behold the abyss and am calmed.

-

The darkness ironically scares you,

you cannot help but think of the creatures.

-

I have walked with the Devil and was not alarmed.

-

Blood rushes to your head, you fear

what may come next and panic.

-

I see black only because I close my eyes

and welcome death.

-

You wonder why you get nothing you’ve asked for.

-

I wake up and wonder why I didn’t pass in the night,

allowing someone more suitable to be here.

-

You regard me with disfavor and hatred.

-

I barely glance at you to save what pity I have left.

-

You gaze into the darkness,

-

I Return The Stare.

The figure, old and decrepit,

lies in a silent tomb of regret,

he ponders his life and where

it has betray him with longing stare,

he slowly rocks to-and-fro

and yet he longs for one love so,

that he cries himself to sleep at night,

seeking some sort of holy plight

to fill his violent life with but one light.

-

he wishes for dreams sweet,

but his requests betray him,

he remembers bloodstained sand at his feet,

and the point at which men’s screams sustained him.

He remembers a thirst for death,

an unquenchable bloodlust.

-

He remembers bodies

covered in entrails and dust,

He sits and thinks though,

of only one retained image,

the figure of a child,

it was a haunting vision.

-

a stray round caught a woman’s throat,

her child covered in the blood that spared her coat,

He remembered this child,

that had watched his mother die,

a boy no more than fifteen,

didn’t so much as flinch or cry.

-

But what held him still,

because death was dealt before,

was the look in the boy’s eyes.

-

This look was hatred for everything that lived

because this woman had not,

this was his terrible decision,

causing awfulness and derision.

-

Within all men with emotion,

when anger’s strength is that of the oceans,

this warrior to-be, a devil’s scorn,

now has nothing, baptized in blood,

the man remembers his son, his brood,

as he was warborn.

A vibrant, boundless beauty,
Cast against the midnight tide,
I find you most enduring
While upon the soft waves you glide.
You kissed me with some kind of freedom,
The taste of which was an awakening,
And your skin, like Eastern silk moving
Upon mine in perfect contrition.
The absence is unlike anything
That was felt any time ago,
I do find myself at times worrying,
Where will I ever go?
Unperturbed and undisturbed,
The loll of heartache and sensations,
Have rendered me now incapable,
And have turned my heart to immolation

Breathe in to me,
Exhale your anguish,
Forever mourning
The whispered pains
Of which from you I relieve.
-
If I could but conquer this distance spanning
From an ocean's lack of understanding,
Gladly suffering so that I may
See you at the end of a somber day,
Awakening within a tempest's wrath,
With the storm's warm water, I'll run you a bath,
So soothing draught and not without sensation,
I want not rid of you, the finest creation,
That when I expire, and look upon Death's peaceful image,
I will throughout ten thousand lifetimes search for your visage.

A broken glass lay on the floor,
It had never occurred to me before,
That this image of a vessel shattered,
To someone might have truly mattered,
It could have held a liquid hope,
It could have contained a loving note,
It might’ve meant the world to them,
Thirsty now, unquenched then,
It must’ve fallen from a perfect table,
A dismal ending to an abysmal fable…
To put such emphasis on metaphor,
Will lead you where you were before,
The glass was empty, as always, like us
We will break too, meaningless.

In one solitary meaning,
Ever sinking, ever feeling,
Never fleeting in its seeming
To be deceiving ages old,
I watched it pass like clockwork
Crafting, remaining in its bulwark,
A bunker, sunken in its crafstwork,
As it lingered in the cold,
It yet, gracefully omnipresent,
Basked, entombed in its resentment,
Encased, steadfast in its amendment,
Its self-revel to be so bold,
A reminder of omniscience,
Displaced, now self sufficient,
The rock face here tells a mission,
Of a winter’s life it stole,
The chiseled, engraved markings,
Might to some be most alarming,
Yet the feature so disarming
Seems unfamiliar so close to home.
In its forgotten confinement
Does it seek a realignment,
Awaiting the assignment
The order to again roam.
In sedition and high-treason,
Must there once have been a reason,
That so frigid as this season,
Be repeated and retold.
At a loss for all neutrality
It forged a new reality
Sacrificing our morality,
And justifying why we’re sold.

By the light of my last candle
Fighting the void, vastness of the night,
I endeavor to use the remaining ink
To paint a worded portrait of your sight.
I struggle to find eloquent metaphor,
Even find hardship with this quibbling prose
To record, to brush enough detail
Of exactly how my heart’s composed.
With bated breath, I do inhale you,
With staggered gait, I am withdrawn,
With gleaming eyes I do perceive you,
I wish it real to my last dawn.
Pure happenstance that I had been,
But so easily pulled into your mind,
However, you in mine always remain,
From when I first caught your steady gaze in time.
There was a fire inside me once,
That turned all therein to ash,
But you became my sweet lolling breeze
That wisped away the cremated past.
You sedate the Evil within me,
So far that you’d never know it was there,
And yet each day away between us
Brings closer my poisoning the air.
The tiresome, bleak creeks of old wind-leaning pines,
Draped across the gnarled forest where all things go to die,
Mean nothing to me in all ignorant omnicide;
I would give the world for you, my sweet paradise.

My retinas severed one weary, darkened night,
I could no longer stand in my own fright,
My cuticles lost to some melancholy lore
Flipping through pages I used to adore,
The blanching of the atoms, each and every cell within,
I could not hope to pursue what lies therein,
Some weakened, hollow shell of the man I used to be,
I would keep looking for you,
But, alas, I cannot see.
I once thought that my mind would eat itself,
Every forlorn synapse, fighting amongst themselves,
When the doubt came clouded, and my head gave in to rot,
The rain became too crowded, each drop is what I sought,
The creation of this December, so cold and without morn,
Gave birth to iced embers somewhere inside to scorn,
I personified malice and yet still my hatred grew,
All but one living thing I wanted to undo,
I wanted you to see me at my most evil worst,
I wanted you to breathe my name as curse,
But now that I have seceded to the inner most retainer,
I see how worthless the person is your body keeps contained here,
Your **** heart locks love like loose lace,
Spilled wind chills fill your killed embrace,
The frail, pale gales pierce your assailed bones,
As your ****-shining ship sinks, think of home.

Willst thou grant me

status of thine nightmare?

And willst thou endeavor

to afford me your care?

-

The longing doth grow aside

The heartache that turns my insides

It never leaves, it never will

I dream of dreams of caressing thou still.

-

Bereft of thine love, mine light so dear,

Soothing laughter of thine smile so clear,

A chamber so cold at night, I die,

Of thou to me next, I fantasize.

-

Thine eyes that gaze into me still,

The photographs still break mine will,

How the sapphires through mine own burn,

How they now are ever stern.

-

Corrupt am I, who’d let it all decay

For the pair of us to run away,

Though mine head may be atop clouds high,

It is all for thou, mine starlit sky.

And everything went to hell...
The bodies lined the streets,
Children called to their mothers
As their homes fell to fallout and riot.
-
The ease of calimty has inevitably fallen,
Contemporary situations evade news of appalling
Images of self destruction
This fallacy proved, lead from corruption,
The final fall of society,
This poor excuse of humanity,
Will serve as example to those who may live,
We can hope their children won't so easily give.

The petal falls free

The tree has lost a lone child

With this, Winter comes.

I am the ***** in the darkness that beckons.
I am the ending the prophetic liars have reckoned.
The feeling you have at the moment before sleep,
Realization of the unknown, the gravity, and weep.
Take my hand and be born again,
I'll show you the minds of evil men.

I will never forget your ugly face,
I'll grow sleepless at night in your disgrace,
At what measure do you think my hatred ends?
I want your pulse to race, quicken,
I want your insides to explode and infect,
I want to be the one to dissect,
I need to feel and see your lament,
You'll ******* boot you ******* insect.

Allow me to speak

Through broken teeth,

Allow me to claw

Through my broken jaw.

-

My grievous fortitude

Denies my attitude

Rejects my failures

And is my Interlude.

-

I pray to Him, my God,

and wish you here,

I ask Him every night,

But He is never there.

-

My soul is lost

In this devil’s eyes

My love for this,

with such heat, makes the seas rise.

-

I am strangled frequently

By the intestines of my intentions

My love for this melody

Was my intervention

-

My quick submission

Of life for this

was of my own volition

and love for this.

It is like water,

Blood pumping out on the dirt,

You Will Fall in Vain.

Death doesn’t exist,
And I refuse to believe in life.
This world consists
Of incapacitating time.
We are all starving signatures
Of an experiemental joke,
And everything we create
Just makes me ******* choke.
All that exists subsists of rot,
A wasted penance, long forgot,
I lay the framework
The words became murk
While the public sits
And bathes in ****,
I don’t want any part of it.
-
Release me. I don’t belong here,
I’ll eradicate anything in my way here,
Subliminally inserted masquerades
Confuse the minds of the weak,
sitting without thought in this charade,
Confounding the blinded to weep.
I’m only suicidal in the mornings,
But the evenings bring contempt,
The hatred spawns new beginnings,
The death brings our lament,
Death doesn’t exist,
And I’ll never believe in life.

The verdict read guilty
The indictment so empty
I care for your suffering
Your empty regret,
The humanity is passion,
Feelings of disease,
You don't feel anything for me and rightly so,
Misguided, you say you see love,
Yet I am all that that is despise,
I am hatred and misery,
I am the empty casket
Summoned up from the abyss,
Your heart is a liar,
You've yet to scratch the surface.

As lead pathologist
I witness my own work daily,
I caress thoughts of interest,
And bring them here after their demise.
My latest case, my last victim
Witnessed me lead her body astray,
And now in death, ironic yet,
As to whom her murderer now portrays.
I cover my own work,
Though honesty is the best defense,
I can tell them what the killer did first hand
And give no recompense.
-
They found her body where I left it,
Like I hoped and knew they would
I'd seen her the night before last,
And thought they rightly should.
Admiring my moonlight work
In my routine A.M. garb,
What obscenities now here lurk,
On my table unperturbed.
-
I begin the autopsy
Of my latest thirst to "Be"
I consider cryptically
Of acting empathetically
-
I locate the Toe-Tag first
"Good morning, Miss Who-Gives-A-****,"
She had thought sweet Death had saved her then,
But I am far from finished yet.
Familiar adhesions from tightened rope,
Emblazoned on her skinless wrist,
"What a monster," I laughed to myself,
Up and down, I check my list.
-
Five-foot-five makes a short short bride,
Though marriage is laughable at best.
White female, dark hair, black eyes,
Dilated from light's detest.
Ears were cut, and teeth were filed,
Apparently so she couldn't bite,
Nose, bullhooked, extremities slashed,
The little dove lost the hope of flight.
-
I removed her eyes again,
I had cut them out before and replaced
But twisted around upside down,
The corneas now front faced.
I placed them in the chemical solution,
That they would not rot until,
Donated to some poor *******
That I would again cut into
-
Putting a block under her back,
Her chest ready for the famous cut,
Down the throat and to the stem,
I perfect it without much luck.
Science dictates to remove the organs,
An examination of internals in effect,
Rationally and with much vigor,
I notice her spine so stiff and *****.
I staple her ***** of skin aside,
And begin to break her sternum,
I would speak now maybe a poet's words,
But I neglected to learn them.
A gruesome crack echoes throughout
The vastly supplied room herein,
I look up, am lost for a moment,
"Ah...", I begin again.
-
Testing the leverage of her ribcage,
I separate both sides until,
I feel the pressured solemn rage,
Of her bones snapping in two.
Full access now, I gaze within
At her lungs, her viscera,
I gently lay scalpel to heart,
And mutilate her parenchyma.
I'm carried away, I flick blade across
Her heart over and again,
Until a matrix of slashes on it
Does appear within,
A wretched mistake, my first,
"Not everyone's perfect," I laugh,
No time to quench the thirst,
I must fix it before seen by the staff,
I stitch carefully with translucent thread,
Perhaps this ploy may avail,
I believe I've just made my death-bed
My days now numbered and frail.
-
Quickly, I bag and tag her insides,
And rest them aside my table,
I stitch her chest back together,
And leave when I am able,
I plan to run as far along,
As my time can take me,
Perhaps I will find some more dissections,
Perhaps just to sustain me.

This, my tomb of "solace", has not heard me stir,
For months I lay here dying upon little spoken words,
Ingratiating sadness upon what little I have left,
Forced upon a decision to return what was bereft.
-
I must make clear in present story
That I fear not God, nor Glory,
I must **** to not "feel" but "Be"
Whatever here entices me.
Pray tell, what is it that you fear most?
Your Hell, I fear, that I must host.
-
A couplet, a stanza, here and there,
About someone's false blood in air,
For fear of failure do I not agree,
At yet, I claim Death's Majesty.
For you see, I am Death's Reincarnate,
His Left Hand, His "Doom's Profligate"
-
Enchanting screams of splattering blood,
Empathetic scalpels from a figure in hood,
Fate loves the dying and Her wishes should
Bring actions closer to Her decaying brood.
I save the tears and sanguine to bathe,
The last exhale is what I crave
To hear regularly so I may sleep,
To never awake, is what I dream.

Bounding forth toward recognition,
Strangling, crippling indecision,
The utmost folly as of yet unyielding,
The exaggeration what with any feeling,
Derisive in itself made one,
Come and gone, done, undone,
We search for that which we’re not worth knowing,
We understand less, and even more showing
Is that our arrogance somehow justifies class,
It just but seemingly turns so crass,
An outright parody of what we were meant to be,
Our aims were lustful gain and greed,
There was at one point meaning here,
But through all we have persevered,
We twisted the morals and lessons to be had,
Emerged a joke, and tanked the land,
Bred it and ourselves to be this way,
And wait for a leader to swift us away,
We act without knowledge and ignore the outcome,
Malignant negligence stemming from
Our inability to understand
That there is no salvation because of Man.

You are the petal that breaks free from the flower.
You are the last fluorescent string of sunshine before dusk.
You are the ripped wings of an insect.
Your "love" was cancerous
Your intent was murderous,
Your opinions, over zealous
And your range always jealous.
You are the last wave of the night tide.
You are the meteor to the moon.
You are Nothing,
Yet something,
Without good;
Just rotting.
You are the "darkest before the dawn."
You are the winter that killed the rose.
You are the nuclear holocaust,
That burned each bridge
And broke each road.
You are Loneliness in company,
You are a sunken charter.
You are a skipping record,
On the wrong part of the song.
You are famine with emotion,
You are the feign of hope.
You are my epitome of hatred,
You are the birdsong that is but a croak.
You are weakness and decay,
You are a fatal wound.
You are terminal illness.
You are not worth a breath,
You are what I can not accept.
You Are ******* Revolting.
You ******* Disgust Me.

I know not the cost.
The price of your sacrifice,
Your murdering your own pride.
The pride you may
Have had for me at one point.
I have never seen it,
Never heard it whisper,
Except when it felt forced
To save some sort of my “feeling”
Never felt it tickle the back
Of my inexperienced neck,
Yet I’ve always yearned for it.
This emotion, like all, I neither
Understand, nor possess,
But I still wish to know its sensation.
I wish to know what I see in others.
To not fail in your specific eyes.
I wish neither to be harsh
Nor accusatory,
I mean that.
You’ve never demanded perfection,
You abhor such an idea,
And, granted, there are things
I have done for which I should be regretful,
But again, I am unable
To understand the very idea.
Ironically, you’ve said I
Talk too much,
Am too full of emotion,
And this such paradox,
I’ve always kept secret.
Sometimes I wish to
Know you better,
To understand more,
To learn your way of thought,
A strain, an algorithm I so respect.
However, it exists somewhere,
Deep inside an earnest feeling,
On subject of your better well-being,
I sometimes wish
You didn't have to know me at all.

A vast landscape spanning mountains and valleys,
Enter entombed upon the dark marsh and gullies.
-
The trees, all decayed except the weeping willows,
Flattened forests jut up through the hillocks.
-
The call of a raven can be heard betwixt,
The open cavemouth of all silence,
The breeze concerns your cheek’s fine flesh,
And you know inside that God exists.
-
The beautiful darkness that escapes the light,
Shocks as if thunder were having its fright.
-
From the gorgeous hillside at where Cain murdered Able,
To the trepid path leading to Four horses’ stable.
-
The wind’s vague touch clearing fallen leaves,
The spring’s dripping water rids of disease,
Ash of the cremated flows through the air,
Swept up, caught in without despair.
-
Sharing stories around a somber fire,
The warming words do stoke the pyre.
-
The Black Cabal does peak between,
The center valley betwixt mounts obscene,
-
The abhorrent cathedral in gothic fashion,
Does purify in all reactions,
Leaving clean and reborn again,
Remaining free for eternity to gate about Eden.

Undoubted, this level of worship,
Reaching above pulling currents
That justifies imposing torment
And yet drips blood of the calcified.
"It is inherent," I'm o'er told,
"To find and end your searching,
To seek but one thing to love."
What if I hate everything?
What if I'd be one with death,
What if I strive for your lament?
Perhaps I lust for some psychosis
Perchance to wake in your nightmares,
How is it, my dear, so far from belief,
That I would see this whole world burn?
Swallowed with plague,
Tyranny falls,
Dictatorships topple,
Monarchy crawls,
Your loved ones suffer,
Your friends all die,
Words become acid,
Tears are suicide,
Encrypted genomes
Now unlocked with instinctual bliss,
The inner beast assumes power,
The concious mind now sleeps,
Crime is objective,
A pure outlook of opinion,
Flayed heads on pikes,
The sentries of deception,
I want apocalypse in all forms
Spared of all deities' protection
I want the human mistake erased,
I want requiem and revelation.

I try to mend what was broken
But these hands have failed before,
The callouses cover scars and lore,
Of a heart that once was stolen.
-
My breath, it holds no air
I find myself never refreshed,
It’s stagnant in my lungs so meshed,
Life, I’ve learned, is never fair.
-
Perpetuating this cadaverous lie,
Lingering in the depths of my thoughts,
It opens up past wounds and wrought
The stitching from healing so fine.
-
The Creation of that emotion
Causes such an anguished feel,
That one may think it’s falsely real,
Never the less, to cause comotion.
-
To think of such so frequently
The time it consumes is dreary,
Its gloom and doom make weary,
The traveler wondering aimlessly.
-
Think of me as a faded epitaph
Eroded with wind and sand,
A mourner, hat in hand,
Passes me like the black cat.
-
It goes to show what lies in reason
Of what I am now consisting,
Of thoughts I’m now resisting,
And to you, my heart is treason.

Creating dysfunctional remembrance
Hitherto unknown, marking ascendance,
Jeopardize a lifelong lust,
Miscellaneous, all but dust,
The thoughts envisioned in my marrow,
I see you walking in dreams so shallow,
I speak to you in low frequency words,
Unsurprisingly, I am unheard,
Not your fault, no twisted contention,
I just but wish a self reinvention,
Remaining the same, self pride became,
footholds of faults, my held horses lame,
ambisinister doubts of recompense
Broken grout, life’s lost pretense,
No meaning present or ever held,
The roses of bloodletting never smelled,
The darkest dreary dreadful days
Lay waste, with which I wilt away,
Cryptic omnipresence arisen in me,
Please help me find shores of Galilee,
As abysmal as I love to remain,
I do admire occasional refrain,
Red lips upon mine, a cold, dead kiss,
Please I beg, just spare me this,
Necrotic appendages, body failing me,
Last whispers are sand grinding seas,
No depth, no fathom, nothing at all,
A muse’s voice begins to call,
What must I suffer willingly
To see what I see as it should be,
What extent of path be trod,
Before I may lay down to rot,
Wherefore are all aphorisms,
All but gone, save cynicism,
I poke and **** til festers bleed,
I blind my eyes til I can’t see,
What ******* mess have I made of me,
What height must I plummet before I’m free?

Gaze upon my parasitic words

That feast upon your purified soul,

Look into the eyes of my devil,

They be not diamonds, but coal.

Could I provide a stolen glance,
That would glisten off my heart,
At where I would see you in a trance,
At where my mind could fall apart.
-
You being a catalyst to the fire,
The arsonist behind my demise,
The smoke takes my thoughts ever higher,
And the flutter in my chest does rise.
-
I see you in dreamlands wandering solemn,
Betwixt a lake and a great etched stone,
You look of tales told to the fallen,
And I wonder why you are there alone.
-
Echoes of the marvelous melody,
Worth dying for so many times over,
Reverberate in the cavity,
That my chest does now dwell and cover.
-
There is nothing left of this place,
You've forgotten everything in me,
But for you my endless mind still does chase,
I wish for what could be.
-
I seek no complaint, rather I should say,
That everything may be as well as it lay
Ambiguous love and hopes in the day,
Will shatter against the stones of the bay.