In the bed the thorns out
Piercing through my skin
The red liquid flowing, peeling
My body hollow.

I want it, I need it
I don't want to stay so I'm going
Save the blessings for your sins
You don't owe me nothing.

Escaping the purgatory
As the heart bleeds out
Bones shed the skin
Overcoming the impending doom.

Slowly the world fades
As my eyes turns black
My soul subtly rise
To reach the depths of hell.

The last time I breathe in
To fulfil my last wishes
Grant myself death
As it offers me in its cold palm.

This is the poeticization machine:
(Say that five times fast)
Raw materials: what I feel and see
The product: powerful imagery --

full of exaggerated angst swathed in
metaphors and rhythm and emotion too
strong to feel
real

Example A: I need a shower so I take it.
Post-Machine:
The burning water scalds my
flesh and I see red rush to the
surface even as the skin on my fingertips
depresses with each passing minute wrinkling
before its time