I want nothing more but to be alive for my autopsy, to experience the nature of what it is to be out of body, to be a phantom in theses cult parties, where everyone is willingly to sell their souls to pay the toll, to be the latest model of exact same copy, but not me, I choose to be a ghost instead, to escape society who's main proirty is censoring my head, because the world of the living is just as lifeless as the one of the dead

I close my eyes and walk on the tracks, because the thrill of not knowing when the train will come, is the only thing that reminds me that I'm even on a journey to begin with.

You can never remember how or when  you obtained your sanity, but you can always recall vividly on the moment you lost it.

Your eyes are pools of mercury, with a resonating gaze as endless as eternity, and as deep as the abysses of space, your lips a delicate shade of blood soaked roses, with an aroma so enticing that it has me fiending for a taste, and your skin as flawless as glass, as smooth, rich and hot to the touch as the forging of brass, and your curves have my eyes wondering all over the map, seeking out your mountains, hills and the holy arch along your back, but even with such mesmerizing beauty at your fingertips, your soul is still a reflection of your subconscious crevices, so you can try to cover up your inner ugly with your outer appearances, but I see right through your falsity, so no matter how gorgeous you are to me, I know what you truly are in reality, a cynic who just wants to see the world fold, so this time I disregard my mind and heart and listen to my soul, that enlightens me on the truth that everything that's shines is not always gold.

Your love is a poisonous green Palm tree, it provides shade from the tough times, but always leaves out the fact that it will **** me in the end.

I free fall threw life, with no sense of direction, not knowing if the bottom is  really water or just a reflection, hiding  the jagged rocks that are ready for  dissection, or maybe it's all a deception, maybe this dive has no end, maybe there are no rocks to break me and no water to save me and it's all just pretend, an illusion which was lend to see which way and how far I could bend, maybe this dissension is as infinite as space, deceiving  me into believing I am wining the race, when all along I have been jogging in place, But no mater I will still surf this wave, because it's the rush of not knowing that has me bound like a slave, to keep interacting with the undiscovered and unexplained, the thrill of the mystery is too sweet on the brain, and that's why I can't stop falling, because the sensation gives me life like the blue in my veins.

I have grown accustom of hiding my emotions, because they prove to be too potent for me to maintain, so I lock them away inside the subconscious parts of my brain, in an attempt to some how mitigate the pain, but it only seems to concentrate the hurt, resulting in a build up of an array of feelings, to the point where I fell as if I'm about to burst, and to make matters worse I have been conversing with death, who suggest that I be left six feet in the dirt, deceivingly making something so cruel sound as sweet as a flirt, tempting me to convert to his side, and It doesn't help that I have been running out of reasons on why to deny the offer, questioning my own existence, asking myself "Am I  truly my life's author?" Or Is there someone else writing the script, and if so do I have a say in any of it? My mind strays into these dark places far to often, people telling me to toughen up, but I just soften, I just wish this morbid thinking could be easily forgotten.