But Dostoevsky was right
Of course
Dostoevsky cannot be wrong
Even if he wanted to
Hell is ineed
The suffering of being unable
To love
And i am a little cynic
Moreover i seem to have
An excruciating desire
To spit on everything that
Is holy
In particular love
That is fresh as a bud
In early March or April
Depends on the weather
Especially then
My hands are itching to
Rip it off visciously from the branch
And break it as fast as possible
So it may never bloom
Just as I was myself
Visciously ripped off my
Youth and thown
To the ground
And i never understood
The people who repeat the same
Suffering that
Had been inflicted upon them
Here i am
I dont understand myself
I don't know her
But i am equipped with
The capacity for disgusting honesty
To the point where it feels like lying
To the point where it feels like
Forcing yourself to *****
Sticking the fingers deep down your
Throat
Inquisiton in search of a confession
Of sins that may or may not have
Been committed
But i want to chase a sense of purity
The purity i had back then
The purity of not even having
To say 'no' because
No one was even there
Now i have become an overly
Sharpened pencil
Disgustingly pointy
Sharp and fragile
And right now i feel
Just as much as a *******
Wooden pencil
Apr 28
Apr 28, 2026 at 9:53 AM UTC
But Dostoevsky was right
Of course
Dostoevsky cannot be wrong
Even if he wanted to
Hell is ineed
The suffering of being unable
To love
And i am a little cynic
Moreover i seem to have
An excruciating desire
To spit on everything that
Is holy
In particular love
That is fresh as a bud
In early March or April
Depends on the weather
Especially then
My hands are itching to
Rip it off visciously from the branch
And break it as fast as possible
So it may never bloom
Just as I was myself
Visciously ripped off my
Youth and thown
To the ground
And i never understood
The people who repeat the same
Suffering that
Had been inflicted upon them
Here i am
I dont understand myself
I don't know her
But i am equipped with
The capacity for disgusting honesty
To the point where it feels like lying
To the point where it feels like
Forcing yourself to *****
Sticking the fingers deep down your
Throat
Inquisiton in search of a confession
Of sins that may or may not have
Been committed
But i want to chase a sense of purity
The purity i had back then
The purity of not even having
To say 'no' because
No one was even there
Now i have become an overly
Sharpened pencil
Disgustingly pointy
Sharp and fragile
And right now i feel
Just as much as a *******
Wooden pencil
