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The intent
to ****
has yet to swell

What seeds
are needed
in order
to grow
such dangerous flowers?

How does one
abandon instinct?
How does one crush thought?

How does one betray the mind
in order to make space
for absolute wrongness?

How does one put aside all that is right
in order to sin,
In order to delve deeper into thoughts
society has advised us not to enjoy?

How does one find the courage
to banish a small portion of what is right
to make space
for what is wrong?


If truth is so sacred,
and truth knows no boundaries,
then why should we,
slaves and servants of this entity,
limit ourselves so?

Why should we let right and wrong enslave us,
hold us captive, preventing us from acting upon instinct?
If truth, the entity we respect without a second thought
is so sacred to us,
why do we limit ourselves with things of such little importance,
things like "right and wrong", things that are products of weak minds, weak souls?

If God is so powerful,
why should we limit ourselves so?
Why are we less than those we respect?
Why do we choose to be less?
Why do we limit ourselves?

Because we cannot be more than the Gods we create?
We cannot be more than the consequences we create?

We are the masters of the things we think limits us.
We are it's creators. We create truth. We create God.
We create the higher beings who have no limits.
And yet we, creators of such things, limit ourselves so.

We've limited ourselves for so long
that we think the glass wall is carved from stone.
For the wall to shatter,
it needn't be touched;
for the only power needed
is willpower.
I was diagnosed with something I can't remember the name of.
It's terminal.

Right after I was told,
a nurse walked past me
she made no eye contact,
and she whispered
"Run away while you can."

I looked across the hall,
there were nurses preparing injections.
They were next to my room.

I walked away
I thought I did.
I was running
towards a window, too.

I just ran.
and ran.
and ran.

My body crushed against the thick glass.
It didn't break.
I almost fell.

The doctors started sprinting towards me.
I ran towards an exit.
It was close to the stubborn window.

I opened the door.

It was snowing.
I had no shoes.
It was cold.

I didn't know what to do.
I stood
observing the people in coats.
Not thinking
they would die
any time soon.

The doctors violently dragged me back inside.
I'm not sure why.
I wasn't struggling.

They put me back in my room,
where I waited patiently
to die.
I want
to embrace my demon;
make love with it's desires,
I want to
let myself be enveloped
by it's existence.

The only reason
I refuse to do so

is because the existence
of such monsters
might mean
a portion of my sanity is lost.

That both excites and terrifies me.
"I'm watching you." He thought,
sliding the tip of his pencil
across the decaying wall.

"I'm watching all of you."
The pressure breaks the small twig.

Images of eyes condemned the broken palace.
Both guard and prisoner being cursed
by the child's anger.

It was a school of brats and pigs.
Just a huge ******* portrait of the world that would soon eat him alive.
His canvas. His hell.

His temporary world.
"Memento mori."  He whispers,
in a language as dead as my hopes and dreams.

I laugh at his ignorance;
I'm as immortal as they come.
I'll live in memories and the grass,
I'll haunt the **** out of this place, out of your place,
out of this whole **** stained island.

I don't just ******' die-
I live forever.
I live just to drag you all down
when you won't be able to do the same to me.
Hell ain't gonna take me, either.

I'll be the scariest ghost you'll ever know of,
because I'll never find enough peace
in haunting all of you.

So I won't be going anywhere.
My burden is the gift I have carried since birth:
A criminal who loves me so;
he would claim the lives of everyone who has done me harm.

But I cannot let him out,

for He is I,
and I am Him.

If I am, He is not,
and once I am not, He is.

My story is that of two lovers who cannot be,
without the death of one.
“There was something about that house..” She said,
drifting into moments non-existent.

“That old house, with low, low ceilings.
..The german furniture..”

In the realm of this woman’s memories,
the sky was tinted crimson for the first time.
Rings of smoke embodied the souls of evil men.
Men who knew nothing of death, of the intricate concept of being.

The light engorging in his pupils,
an old man thinks:
“This year will be carved into the marble walls of history.”

The man’s statement echoed in the trees, in the strings of existence.

The woman, now part of the crimson sky that adorned her skin,
remembers the suffering in the way a man remembers a deceased lover’s smile.

Children, creatures and materials burned without color in her eyes.
Their voices muted, the crackling sounds replaced by Mozart,
“The Day of Madness”.

It was the least she could do to be safe in a shattering world;
to dream without the dangerous colors,
to fill a sudden void with familiar sounds,
with fragments of anything she considered to be home.

“I never went back.”
She returns from the pool of memories, dripping in truth and lies.
Her frown decorating her mouth.

“But I know
after the chaos,
the house was just a pile of ash.

A pile of ash and misery.”
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