Let me tie you up
and torture you
like the way you did me

I want to deal the death card
just for you and me
then once again we will be free

You did your best to **** me
now it is my turn
see if I'm luckier in what I've learnt

Let's get close to death
lets die in eachothers arms
in the blood of sweet charms

Are you ready to die
tell me you want to
for I truly do


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

People say if watch yourself die within a dream you die on the outside
But how come with falling of the sun and the rising of the moon
I watch myself die, I watch that fatal event The day I was taken from my beloved... The day I died
A memory oh that memory I pray to be just a dream
The pain it still lingers
I can still feel the touch of hands, his lips upon mine his smile oh his smile
That haunting image that appears only when I rest my eyes
I think now maybe their right
Because I die everynight knowing I can only see your through my dreams

"i don't wanna have to be the one to tell you this,
but you're no foodie; you're just a fat-***
who's too cowardly to take an honest look at yourself.

It's okay to be whatever you want,
just don't lie to yourself proclaiming to be a foodie
to justify late-night trips to Jack in the Box four days a week,
or eating a whole jar of Tostitos 'Salsa con Queso' every two days.

Are you trying to mummify yourself with all those preservatives?

Y'know,
just because you blow most of your paychecks
on gasoline, **** food and overpriced coffee
pulled to the most pretentious of standards
doesn't at all begin to mean that you've got any class, taste, or style,
let alone that you're a foodie.

At least recycle all the paper products your pseudofood comes in.

Moreover, your thighs aren't ******* gluten,
they're all that other junk you eat habitually
while watching your oh-so-edified selection of films
before sleeping it off until 3 in the afternoon.

No wonder you're so full of ****:
you are what you eat, I suppose.

Pull your head on out your ***.

All that fat and cholesterol isn't for the faint of heart."

Red hair in my eyes,
Phones that do not ring,
Supper for one, old dishes,
Birds clearly calling to no one,
Moss on a roof, mute sun through
Glasses of wine, not fading voices,
Winds that saunter, sweeping —
Aloof, still pools in a wanton bower,
Fingers unclaimed in the witching
Hours, an abandoned bed watched
Over, slept upon, the sharp creeks
In a silent, boardered old house —
Where no one has simply moved,
The branches in the blanketed yard
Swaying like new dancers so free,
Grey bark that fell at foot of tree,
What will become of me?