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Oli Jul 6
They want to tell you that the evil that I fall asleep begrudgingly with is the same that every single one like me is bludgeoning the innocent with,
I am not afraid to say it, I am not the victim,
I will stay awake for days until there's no more skin to pick from,
I'll sew shut the mouths of every infant to quiet every winter,
every mother will resent her womb, a fruitless wound within her
****** every father with these wide, arresting ****** eyes
and hips that move on their first ride enthusiastic like a child,
so certain in his mind with every ****** the ways that he'll betray her,
in a rabid fit of lust becomes a family annihilator

They want to tell you that the evil I resent that resides in me is the same as all the rest they deem as accidents
but it takes a heart of pure love and hatred to swim above the surface with a millstone round your neck
Oli Jun 18
Well it's the greatest thing ever written, and it's just great
Well, it's just great

It's like a marble wall where the water reflects, hung up there like an SOS for a drowning kid, I can flush my eyes when it floods again
I can speak in tongues and leave my friends impressed with my newfound hope for this worthless skin, sharing these secrets in an intimate space with similar rejects living without purpose, huddled together with just our slit wrists and a thousand words of consolation to mitigate what comes next
or I can take this kitchen knife and take my vengeance on this decrepit ******* body of mine that's ruined the brain inside my head, sever every piece of skin that torments me the best with a butcher's precision and be the finest addition to their long list of people like me that scare people like you to death

And the book was written, and it was lauded as 'great'
and all we could say was, "well, that's just great"
Oli Jun 17
I wish I had the words to say, my blood soaked brain
it stains the cloth that suffocates, baby's blue face
I wish I had the words to say, my aching state
I ate the taste, neglect my frame
a shapeless pain, no meal today

wring out blood and words and thoughts forever
wring out blood and words and thoughts forever
wring out blood, words, thoughts, forever
wring out blood
wring out blood
wring out blood
wring out blood
wring out blood
wring out blood
wring out blood
Oli May 19
writing poetry is a way to exist, to attempt to emulate the beauty of the me that I'm not yet but the me that's inside of my head, and it's all spontaneous, nothing planned or rehearsed because rarely does anything come from it

listening to music is a way to exist, I reside somewhere in a line I interpreted to refine an alternative image of this body that I refuse to accept

dissociation is a way to exist, cause the loudness of my own ambitions and dreams and goals, or rather delusions, can distract from my own nightmarish self image, but only for a moment

self harm is a way to exist, as I hope that the me that I imagine is stronger than I am and can tolerate far more punishment inflicted by either myself or my fellow human

******* is a way to exist, cause the lust I experience is never more prominent than when there's truly nothing left for me and I've exhausted every other method, and there is nothing to do but give in to the most worthless way to feel a sense of purpose

Emorie is a way to exist, because she's an exquisite reflection of the life that I've always wanted, and what I wish I could see instead of what I get when I look into the mirror and see dead eyes and unfamiliar flesh.
yeah, it's my life. in my own words, i guess.
Oli May 15
all i want
not enough
dig a hole
can't return
to save myself
no exit
from the dirt
it's futile
rinse the stain  
gonna break
see my face
no control
see my eyes
don't exist
see my smile
can't imagine
feel my skin
never happens
to feel alive
never will
to feel something
can't resist
just to rest
no control
fall asleep
no exit
feel something
it's futile
just exist
never happens
never will
Oli May 3
you take all my poems and you lock them up in little drawers, then tell me to open up but I can't find the words
Oli Apr 17
i've got a curse on my body, stems from a curse in my head, and i'm a curse to society so i'll curse all of them
and i'll form my hand into the shape of a gun, and i'll point to my temple just to give myself directions to the place where I was last fed and i'll crawl back like a stray cat just to be denied again
of another dissociative self-afflicted right of passage
then awake as the bullet fades into and back out of existence, just long enough to effectively exist as a migraine and not the cause of my own destruction,
a feverish kind of reincarnation that leaves residual traces of all of my past sins
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