Scared from my bush with no name
They will brain wash the impaired
Such hefty goals they hide behind
Filling the holes you dug in their mind
Empty structured used to hold our souls
Constantly Walking down dank desolate halls

Feeling a strange comfort, yet impending doom
With every minute creeping closer to death
I do hope you cherish your last few breath
Soon all deranged intent reveals itself
You'll Find the TRUTH in finding yourself
Nothingness, the curtain closes over us

Pay to live, live to pay, pay to pray
Go down the line of our institutions
The line dead ends at supposed reality
Know now the solutions to vanity,
will come in due time. Ending your time
Minds grave stayed a slave, slave to stay

Walk the grey line.
Brain wash the impaired
The Morbid thoughts
Brain washed society
Do  not be scared
of what we can't see
This personal
separation.
Hear vibrations
Feeling natures stair.
Strife not the end
Climb the tree of life

Thought deprivation, and oral defecation. Plant the seed
Repair wounds of time. Knowing everything must feed
Isolation growing intense psychology distorted mind
Undiscovered complex perversity living inside of the  
There are some driven by the destruction of adversity
In Life and death, I tell you revision isn't key

Direct your inquiries to thriving minds
Be still in your decisions long pondered
Remove your mistakes, remove your memories
Time breaks for insanity, in alternate realities
Not acceptable. UNIVERSAL descent, a shame
Monetary gain, owning rights to humans brains

Its all about the capital and its punishment
The day we all thought would come true
This day we will soon enough forget.
New life surrounded by decay and death
We know  you won’t, but you really should
enjoy the carcass. It will all end soon.

To many people fearing the day they’ll die
Open to the window of opportunity
Look through the window to the other side
If what you found was lifeless, run and hide

Darling,
This pain will last forever.
I'm bleeding out,
Lovingly dismembered,
Hung on hooks.
Cherished.
A spectral heart
Pumping dust
throughout my veins.
This holy temple,
Now in ruins.
Now a tomb.
Burning, desecrated.
Love laid gently to rest...
Godless, evermore.

A decade from now,
            My words will only be a carcass even birds won’t want
            To pick at anymore.

I won’t be able to keep track of where my similes skip off to,
And maybe I’ll discover later that they crossed the street like a chicken
That wouldn’t know to look both ways,
Causing a six car pileup,
But never making it to the other side of the road as I intended them to.

Maybe my metaphors will age quickly,
            And ten years down the road
            Their doggy jowls will quiver with one last yawning breath
            As they collapse beneath the nearest tree from hip failure
            Resting at last beneath a pleasant summer sun.

I don’t like to think about it,
But I’ve entertained the idea
That perhaps I will neglect my words,
            Letting all the quatrains pass me by.

Yes, that is how my structured sentences will meet their end:
            With no periods
            But a blank space
                        Where your name should be.

I’d like to think that someday
            I won’t have this horrible need to write anymore
I’ll describe my perfect days because I want to,
Not to fill this void I made
When I handed out my consonance like candy
            And scattered similes in the air like skittles
            During that drought we had a while ago
When everything was black and white
And I thought everybody wanted
A taste of the colors I’m made of.

I like to entertain the thought that someday

Someday
            People are going to reach back through the decades and excavate my words
            And try to find deep meanings beneath all my poetry.
            Scholars will slit the throats of my similes,
            Claiming there was some philosophical point pumping through the jugular,
            And I might laugh somberly [a little] if they do.

            They’re going to find the rotted carcasses in the most random of places:
            A passenger seat,
            The floor by a bathroom,
            A stairwell,
            Under a tree.

I know that some might try to find the cause of death.
In fact,
I know they will.

But I’d much rather people look for the only reason of birth,
The only meaning behind all my metaphors,
I want these people to catch the quatrains I let pass me by when it hurt too much.

When it hurt too much
To just write-

I love you.

Trapped in this story.
Repeated history,
that's more misery than mystery.
Perhaps I'll leave this crap one day
Refuse to stay and go away,
but it wouldn't be long
before I'd collapse and relapses back into it all.
Enthralled in the fresh mesh,
across my rotten flesh.
Unable to even crawl,
as it sprawls around me
and develops me into something grotesque.
Against my best protest,
ignoring my distress,
until I become something I detest.
And all though this picturesque depiction of my depression
may seem extreme, like a bad dream
In reality it stems from a belief
that nothing ever gleams in darkness.
Regardless of what they say, darkness is artless.
Nothing more than a rotting carcass.
Harmless and heartless but not homeless,
because it's the same carcass in every ******* story in this never ending circle.
The only real consistency in the ever changing story.
Me,
internally rotting away for an eternity.
Trapped in this story.

Bodies that pile are dead
On top of soil like its their bed

The animals that are roaming above are vultures
Watching every body structure
Waiting if its clear to puncture

Bodies sinking to the soil
Maybe its better if they boil

But its nice to know
That they're going to a better place somehow
Wondering if the bodies below
Has experience loved somehow