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Max Feb 2018
My anger never tasted like fire.
It is not smoke billowing up from my throat.
It is not a raging inferno inside my chest burning my reason away.

My anger tastes like winter.
Like icicles forming in my veins and fingers.
Forcing me to breathe harder, move faster
because if you are still you are not living.

But I can count the times I have wanted to live on my own two hands.
Incidentally, most of those times have been during the winter,
because in the winter I am cold enough that I can't differentiate between my anger,
and my normal state of being.

This year, we had no snow, and spring is slowly starting to creep back into the world,
and yet my fingers are cold, and I see my breath in the air
So I remain still.
Max Feb 2020
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.
Max Jan 2020
******. ******. Little. Drop.
Ripping. Tearing. Never. Stop.

Losing control poisoned me.
But in your torment, I was free.

Butchers slab, hard and cold.
Another victim, never old.

******. ******. Little. Drop.
Drinking glass, filling up.
****** poetry.
Max Jan 2020
cold

"why"

because you are clingy and i desperately need to catch my breath

cold

"why are"

because i saw you share your secret happiest smile to my best friend

cold

"why are you"

i'm sorry, i'm really trying to put my emotions into words but since something inside is damaged i can't
not like you, i simply can't

cold

"why are you so"

god ******, you are the light in the dark, the rainbow after a rainfall, the silver lining in the clouds, you are the promise of a brighter tomorrow and i would give anything to see you smile again

cold

"why are you so *******

cold?"
based on a conversation i had with my ex once. my trust issues and inability to convey emotions clearly put a strain on our relationship.
CV
Max Jan 2020
CV
Useless
Waste of space
You take too much energy and time from those around you.

Why do you never learn.

It's no longer a question but a statement.

25 years

Why do you never learn.
Max Jan 2020
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.
help
Max Jan 2020
every single time I feel like we have something in common you ruin it with an offhanded remark about last holiday, where you drank an oceans worth, and bedded half the women in town.

its an obsession i never understood, perhaps i was damaged from the start, but everywhere i look i see this lust for lust, and it feels like nothing is sacred.

am i ****** for wanting a single soul to share the rest of existance with?

what an absurd idea.

the mere thought that because my chest seizes up everytime you tell your rose red tales, i would forbid you from living your life the way you chose.

i would change if i could.
i would grind down my sharp edges so that i could fit into the puzzle that is this world.
i have tried.
i swear, i've tried.
Max Feb 2020
Cobwebs
Stagnant water
Lightless
Hopeless
Useless

The mere sight of it made our angels above recoil in disgust.

A festering wound that poisons the well. Meandering procrastination. Birthed hate and envy.

It is rot.

It is decay.

It is a promise.

It is inevitable.

It is home.
DIY
Max Feb 2020
DIY
You taught me so much.

How to hate without breaking.
How to lie without crying.
How to sleep without resting.

How to scatter the contents of your mind against the wall by your bed each night
like rainbow glass crashing
into rainbow splatter dripping
into rainbow puddles flowing
into black cracks.

******* without killing.
Max Feb 2020
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
Max Jan 2020
go wild. do not let your mind stop your hand.

you are stagnating.

the waters are still.

but if you drag the tip of your pen across the cheap paper you, pretender poet, bought yesterday as a fit of impulses told you that you could be worldclass if you just write, just write... deep breath. just write.

the frustration moves your hand, it writes a crude mess of thoughts that youve spent half an eternity trying to pretty up, to present to the masses.

but these words are not pretty, they do not invoke some grand image of a magical world.
but they are yours, and they are true.

so pick up the pen and drag its tip across the paper. dont think,

just go wild.
eh
Max Feb 2020
Hey, Look!

Blue cloth pants with yellow vertical stripes and glittery disco boots!

Joy and dance in concrete club halls!

30 foot tall glass tanks filled to the brink with tiny white pills, turn the tap, they go clack clack clack on the floor!

Bass boosted booms burrows beneath bones, flesh feasts on fear, and fights for fickle infatuation.

Saliva drips between the beats, two hundred souls makes a swamp and their legs get tired from sloshing through the fluids.

Outlives the sun and makes love with the moon, their friend, and anyone to everyone else.

It's a party!

A party!
introverted party *** drugs dislike loathing
Max Mar 2020
has your life really been that easy?
that you can spout your ****
and expect no consequence?
has it been that easy?
that you really expect no backlash
when you say those things
with a grin on your face?
has it really been that soft?
that no matter what you say or do
you will never know pain again?

i held my tongue this once
but next time i will prove to you
that not everyone has had the luxury
of forgetting hell.
some people suffer, then forget the pain.
dont forget that others are suffering too.
Max Feb 2020
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.
Max Aug 2019
The night silence screams in my ears after I startle awake.

Another nightmare.

The crying whistle of iron, wood and fletching echoes in the night
Memories of a dead mother sinking in a sea of vibrant autumn leaves
dead eyes commanding me to run
but I don't run

The girl needs me.

Tanya, child of chains, of blood, of regret, of sin, of... hope.

She taught regret like its something I lost
Like it wasn't torn from my chest and replaced with hammers
and blades and chains and blood dripping in silence

I see in her eyes a seed, something that grows in a land that hasn't seen green in a century
And footsteps in the night herald our death, heed my words, a life of such misery and cruelty brings only misery and cruelty in return.

We tear our skin on greedy grasping and groping thorns
fleeing the howls another night again

Black hair like the stars were plucked from the sky just to give something to liken it to
Brown eyes that sound like chains rattling on stone, so I don't forget my promises.
She speaks of hope, as if it's something tangible and abundant, enough for everyone.
But like a stubborn candlelight in the winter night, fighting the wind for survival, it does warmy my heart.

Perhaps the road does not have to end.
Perhaps we have bled and fought and wept enough, and we have finally paid our dues.
Perhaps we can find it in ourselves to find forgiveness for the wicked things we have done, and if not, at least we have found forgiveness in each other.

Perhaps life without pain is possible.

...

The night no longer screams silently, but speaks the hidden language of footsteps, of drawn daggers and ill intent.
Years turned a child into the promise of a young woman.
The promise of a life lived in peace.
But as I know, the enemy of peace is the cutting midnight whistle of an arrow, and the earth itself opening up to swallow anything I hold dear.
She sinks into a sea of dead leaves and tides of blood.

It was not a ******. It was a theft.

A theft of the last good thing in the world.
The last star in the sky, snuffed out, to leave all in darkness.

A theft of a promise, made to a naive child in early summer.
Where once a promise stood, now a blade named Vengance.

A theft of lives, not one.
But regret was not something I lost. It was torn from me. The ones who gave me my hammers and blades are the ones who took my child.

And now, I go to return my hammers and my blade.

And to take back my regret.
A poem about a couple of characters I've written. The main character was as a child taken by a ruthless gang of outlaws. They killed his mother in front of him as they attempted to flee.

The gang took the boy in and trained him to be one of their own, making him their de-facto torturer, his prefered tool being hammers, hence the title.

During a raid, the main character finds a young girl hiding in a house, and he takes pity on her and takes her as his own, and by doing so incurred the wrath of the outlaws. The main character and the girl fled into the woods and lived many years as quietly as they could, the girl teaching him to be good and kind, and to seek redemption for the people he had hurt.

Eventually, the outlaws find them and as a petty act of revenge they attack them both, killing the girl. The main character takes up his sword again after many years and heads to **** the outlaws.

(For anyone curios, it wasn't mentioned in the poem; but after the main character wreaks havoc on the outlaws, he lives a life of kindness, redemption, and peace.)
Max Mar 2020
empty days                       empty or dead
empty head                             that im not
empty eyes                            alive and
empty or dead                 that i am still
eternal void approaching              me
no reason to stay                   reminded
only anger and sorrow              warmth
and as the dark closed in        and her
I closed                               was blinding
my                                       and her light
eyes...                     by her shrill laughter
        but was startled awake
its a mess, but so is life
Max Feb 2020
Dear World.
Hello.
I no longer wish to be so wrong.
I have taken my pills
and sung my song.

So please mend my heart.
Wash my troubles away
and
Grant me another start.

I promise to do my best
I now know not to trust.

...

I'm sorry.
My bitterness still remains.
I know we can't restart.
I'll just swallow my tears.

And write another poem.

Best Wishes,
                                       Max
Max Feb 2020
d
     r
      i
        p
                  d
              r
            i
    ­         p
     d
    r
  o
p

tears
  blood
    or wine
      you chose
Max Feb 2020
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.
I have severe trust issues, and I cannot for the life of me remember what caused them in the first place.
Max Aug 2019
My brother has rocks in his eyes.
He calls them gemstones and minerals and more I can't remember.
We tease him sometimes; "they're minerals marie."

His lover has two halves, the manic one
and the depressive one.
She's carrying his child, even though they aren't married.

Her brother fought against the excessive use of drug use in his family
being a rebel by doing well, being responsible.
but he was held down by his brother, and now he's the worst addict of them all.

His brother makes games. And music. And he writes poems. And he's rarely sober.
He's had life handed to him on a silver platter. He's handsome, smart, fun.
He's fun when he's sober.

His lover came from across the globe. When they were younger, he married her to let her come live in his country.
Her mother is a life-long ******* addict, and she dreads turning into her mother.
But it doesn't stop her from doing every drug imaginable. Her addiction has turned her lover against her, as well as most everyone else.

She used to be my lover, a long time ago. When she was younger, she had such fire in her heart. A passion unrivaled.
That's when I found my love for stories, for poems and tales of myths and strange legends in far away lands filled with wild magic.
I envied her passion, and to this day I still can't bring myself to show that kind of fire.

But I am trying now. I am practicing, writing whatever comes to mind.
When I sit now and look at the words I've spewed onto this noteblock, I think I understand.

I love my family, even though they don't know of my pain.
I love writing stories and poems, even though I lack knowledge, experience and most of the time, motivation.
I love people, even though I am gripped by terrible anxiety whenever interacting with them.

I'm writing this to myself, as well as to you; even though many things scare you and make you hurt, I hope you never lose your love for the world.
bleh

— The End —