i dont understand the emptiness the subsides. deluged in a subconcious mass of riptides. theres a better constuct among the hillsides. but the mind is branching off in dark suicides.

the deeper i cut
the less i bleed
unsure if i am in shock
or incapable of the need
or perhaps the desire
of what will not come.
death by a blade
when the plasmas reach an end
an end to the facade.
by of no means do i recommend
a life of taunt.
it sickens me
for it isnt what i want
it sickens me
because of what i do want
a jaunt
a journey of pleasure
or of that
freedom of leisure
something to treasure

shes locked in her own solitude,
with no peace to be found .
devalued, and lost in her own burial ground.
darkness eats away at every inch of light inbound,
and shes struggling to keep surface of a simple flesh wound.
she speaks "simple",
as if, it isnt her own corruption.
in her own minds riddle,
its the human-norm.
the skin is brittle,
but she takes hold of a violent storm,
can she keep surface?
or will she sink deeper,
deeper then the norm.