The chill of wind
Mixed with the heat of passion
Leaves a whirlwind of emotion
With nothing behind

The uprooting breeze
Which had grown to enormity
Was sweeping away
The hopes of my dreams

Yet whilst my gaze
Still lies on you in the depths of night
Allow me to dance with you
Along the mist of fantasy

"Are you still writing of death?"
Yes...
Is that bad?

Just because I'm sad, lonely, and a wardrobe of black,
doesn't mean I want to die.
Nor does it mean I admire death.

It just comes easy to me.
Fear comes easy to me.
If you look deeper you will see that I write of other fears.

Being left behind.
Other peoples perception.
Negativity winning.

so to answer your question, yes.
Confronting fears is why I write.

The cavity left in my chest when I stopped believing in love has become haunted by the feeling of being alone. I've been dressing like a funeral and I've been thinking of you often and the bed that I've been sleeping in is feeling smaller every night. I've been filing voids with a fascination in the pain of my friends, but it just adds on to mine, it just keeps me afraid. I want to test the boundaries of humanity, I want to memorize your scars, I want to know that I'm not the only one who owns a haunted frame, who has a pressure on their skull and thinks of death often. I think I'm going crazy, but I don't hear any voices, I just love seeing others hurt and knowing I'm not alone. I just love seeing scars and knowing they're okay to wear. Or at least they seem okay. Or at least they seem expected. I want to know all of your fears, what you think of at night, I want to keep you safe from yourself, hide you closely in my arms, I think that if you clear out all of the smoke and you look with sore eyes, everyone's fears are the same. Because nobody wants to die. At least not inherently, at least not at first, because we both know there was a time, a moment where everything stopped being all right, and you kept distance from mirrors, you stopped flashing a smile, and you started thinking, maybe, "I'm not strong enough to fight". So you can divide the world in two. You can narrow fear down, because there are people afraid of death, and there are people afraid to live. And I'm fascinated by the moment, or maybe the collapse over time, when the human mind switches from smiling to "I'm fine".  I wonder often if I'm the only one who finds beauty in sadness, and if I am, I'm sorry for calling you pretty when you cry.

And if I am, I'm sorry for wasting your life living time.

It could just be the sad songs.

Put a gun in your mouth and then ask if I’m okay.
It’s hard to speak, isn’t it? When death is in your head
And by the way, no.
I’m not okay.
I’ve had a gun in my mouth ever since my grandfather died.
The gun keeps me from talking and sounding insane, but I still write of death every single ******* day.
And It’s not because I’m suicidal.
It’s not because I’m edgy.
I’m just scared.
I don’t want to leave nothing behind.

******* for calling my art “rants.”
For not being able to see past letters I paint on a canvas.
There is a certain spot where ***** like you will never be allowed,
and that’s between the lines of the words I write.
I’ll write all you ******* off as I write of all your ******* sins,
and I’ll wear another mask just like you want me to.
I build a home and you burn it.
I build a reputation and you stain it.
I’ll be a ******* carpenter of confidence, and you’ll still be my villainous vandal.

So *******.
And your scummy scandals.
And your insidious intentions.
And your daggers of delayed and destructive dialogue.

I’m over you.