Her words pour like gasoline

And my fist impacts the brick wall in the moonlight
Bone shards splinter like firework sparks
Sets her words alight, they stick to me

My life is approaching its ******

A Gunpowder Crescendo

Inspiration is like coming home to a stairwell full of men in white hazard suits, carrying down furniture from upstairs, and a strange smell in the air.

You might not always understand it
or even like it
but if it makes you write, then whose to say that the buzzing of flies in the stairwell is wrong.

But the smell lingers for weeks, and the buzzing quickly loses its charm.
It sickens you, and brands a curiosity in your brain.

So one night you creep up the stairs and find the door slightly ajar. The smell turns your stomach. Its white, static, sweet and rancid. Your trembling hand push the door open.

The hallway is empty, except for a long dark brown doormat. Its cold and dark, the windows are open, and theres a faint whiff of cigarette smoke coming from downstairs.

Its another neighbour, the purple haired girl who spends every night arguing with her boyfriend.

But the apartment is empty. No corpses with sunken eyes or pools of blood on the floor.

Just a sickly stench and a curiosity sated.

You loaded your gun with Ruin
Pointed it at the crowd and found me

Blame my luck, but you pulled the trigger.

The scars you left on my body is lesser yet than the taste of your Ruin on my tongue.

And I couldnt have asked for a better mentor to teach me the all the subtle intricacies of Hate.

For everytime I am reminded of your taste I
hate
hate
hate
Hate

Hate you

Hate me

HATE every single one like you
and me.

And with your gun you blew my soul to bits and left me in
Ruin.

Why is it that I cannot take your word
Syllable by syllable
I know you lie.

You all lie.

Rotted from the inside out, there is no longer anything pure here.

And I cannot for the life of me remember what kind of poison it was that ate away my trust.

A sharp lesson learned a thousand times over.
A thousand promises broken
and the shards cut my feet.

A promise to lay off the drugs.
A promise to be faithful.
A promise to stop lying about everything that ever happened to her.
A promise not to destroy what I had built.


Again and again.

Best friend, brother or lover.
I still taste the poison in my mouth
And it reminds me to never trust you.

Slick Slimy Inky Sickness for 25 years have gripped my mind, swallowing every last bit of joy I ever knew.

Every week was a new project to find a better way to end it. A morbid hobby, it's true, but anything seemed better than this wasteland of broken thoughts and heartache.

Then the fear gripped my heart.

The absolute fear of death, of the void, of the end of conciousness and all things.

An eternity unawake, not graced by even dreams as aeon passes by, unaware of the fear.

As the Sun dies and swallows the light, and the Earth freezes and crumbles, long after you too die, we will still be dead. Unawake. Not even dreaming.

I am terrified of the absolute nothing.

But it still comes for me.
And you.