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Click, falls to the floor. Dusty movie theater with shoe dirt on the backs of the seats.
Noisy couples in the back ******* face and other parts, distract from
The dead body on the screen and the 3-D pool of blood dribbling towards them.
"Love, won't you bite my eyes? Your lipstick reminds me of the deadly ruby liquid in your veins."

Because it is.
I have no clue...
Send me a fire starter and foundation to cover the crispy skin of my forearm.

I am sorry, I couldn't help it, I was so cold and desperate for heat.
The firemen were too late. The steel walls surrounding me melted from
The heat and my every regret was spilled in front of me.
Underground tunnels make my black ink flow like the Nile,
Washing my pages with black and erasing my written labyrinth.

Send a raft so that I may not drown in my own madness. A signed envelope
With a perfect message.

Sleep when you write, you can dream that way, an exaggerated reality
That murders your sense, drags you into a dusty cupboard and gouges out your eyes and ears.
Three weeks later, a box shows up at your door.
You reach inside and feel everything, smell the rotting flesh. You can not hear or see anything
Because your parts used for perception are in your hand.

Happy Birthday!
From, your worst nightmare.
As I drift on the edge of sleep
Where my desires and reality converge
Like wet sand on the beach
Left behind by the receding tide
To either fizzle out slowly in summer's sun
Or be blown dry by winter's wind
Bubbles of foam seep out from beneath the grains
They form thoughts, and then they pop...
Silently.
Does a bubble make a sound when it pops?
Do we care about the demise of such a fragile object?
Aren't our lives just like a bubble?
My eyelids flutter open and closed
Micro-sleep is only a term that constantly awake people use
If we're supposed to sleep a third of our lives
Where does the difference in the estimated time go?
Moments in this wee hour of night or morning
Where I'm drowning in a sky of my own thoughts
Am I really alive?
Or is this a lucid dream?
The answer is unknown
I'm already asleep
I want to write, I want my words to flow
Like a raging waterfall in the beginning of spring
I want my words to scream as loud as I do in my head

But I have nothing
No words to put on a paper
No words to be said
No sentences to be formed

I only have this
Me, my brain and the complete chaos inside
I want to write
But I have nothing I would understand
Just a bunch of words flying around in my head
I want to throw all of my feelings on a paper
I want to create something

I don't care if I get crushed
I don't care if no one understands
I don't care if I don't understand
There is too much
It is everywhere

I feel...
Inspired
Happy
Angry
Stressed
Depressed
Hypnotized
Excite­d
Sad
Greatful
Exhausted
Independent
Alone
Proud

Infinite.

Yet I can't seem to write anything
And that is all I want
I am more than nine cuts because they think I want attention
I am more than a left shopping cart in an empty car park
there's something behind these walls
my mother used to tell me not to drown in the body of my lover because no matter how much you love, baby, no matter how much you want it -- you will never be able to breathe under water
I am not in love
I am not someone you kiss back
don't think I won't trace the map with my lips until I find your roots, until I can **** out all the memories you buried in the ground
I taste you
you taste like a battlefield
I wish I could **** the war out but all I can is breathe smoke into your lungs
all I can is breathe
and my heart, baby, my heart will never stop beating but I have to keep in mind that it does not beat for anyone but me
no matter how hard it works when you're near, no matter how much it wants you -- it beats for me
but that doesn't mean I can't capture you in it
paint you with angry strokes of grey and black because that's all we are
that's all we've ever been
The desire to be an artist,
To be a poet, to be immortal.
Knowing there's a land of words
If I can only reach the portal.
Drown in ****** and Wine
In a tub filled to the brim,
Letting France run down my throat,
Letting France run down my chin.
Words lay at the bottom
Of every bottle (or so they say)
Convincing us it's worth the *****
And the headache the next day.
Kiss goodbye the sound mind,
And enter insanity.
Welcome to the world of arts
With streets of vanity.
There stands Shakespeare on the balcony;
Kurt Cobain sits in the corner.
This place you are one
Where anywhere else you are a foreigner.
Here there is no day.
Here there is only night.
Here you sit making art
By the candle light.
But here there is no laughter,
For an artists knows no joy.
Instead here lies the dreams
Of all the dead girls and boys.
And here there is no rest,
For an artist knows no peace.
Here is the land of artists.
Is it everything you dreamed?
..
the difference between
worthless and priceless
is knowing
you are
free

..
freedom comes
from Holy love
All seekers find
& every heart
is satisfied
She walks the street with a broken heart
Her only clothes ripped and torn apart
Once upon a time she was on top of her game
But soon she was down in the dumps with only herself to blame

So now she begs on the side of the road
People wonder how she reached this desperate mode
Her only home is a dumpster behind a pub
Though occasionally she goes to the pile of trash behind the neighboring club

Her life once was so perfect
But then came a decision she would always regret
It made her heart ache
It was all she could take

The love of her life had left her without a care
He left her for a girl with whom she couldn't compare
So she took off from her loving home
She left all the things she'd known

So every single day
It always stays the same
She walks the streets with a broken heart
Her only clothes ripped and torn apart.
written in the eighth grade so spare me
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