monday next week would
have been my last day
inside the rehab

today i was told by another patient
that he has nothing to lose
anymore

he confessed to me what he
might do very soon

it was horrifying!

i will not write about it

therefore I am going to
leave here today
in the evening i'll be
meeting good-hearted people
who believe in a
power much bigger than
all of us

a good man does the right thing
that's why i want the good in my life

may god bless us all.

Giddy with excitement,
she fumbles with her keys.
As the key slides home,
she grows weak in the knees.

She’s waited so long,
and it’s finally come.
She spent a small fortune,
and the thing weighs a ton.

She pushes in the package,
starting to sweat,
and suddenly realizes,
her ******* are wet.

She slides a finger inside her,
and lets out a moan,
trembling slightly,
all the way to the bone.

Gathering herself,
she locks the door tight,
and forces herself to calm down,
gathering all her might.

Getting down on her knees,
she opens the box,
brushing away the packing,
like styrofoam rocks.

When she sees his face,
she sits up *****.
He is so lifelike,
and anatomically correct.

Reaching into the box,
she caresses his face.
He’s so beautifully sculpted,
not a thing out of place.

Then she runs her hands,
down his chest to his groin,
caressing his ****,
feeling the warmth in her *****.

It’s bigger than expected,
as long as her forearm.
The biggest she’s had,
but this raises no alarm.

Taking her time,
she arranges him on the bed.
Even laying a pillow,
under his head.

Running fingers through his hair,
she begins to undress.
Doing it slowly,
cause slowly is best.

He’s more than a doll,
more than plastic parts.
He will never hurt her,
or break her heart.

She crawls on all fours,
in between his thighs,
running her fingers over him,
as she stares into his eyes.

Then she fills her mouth,
******* gently at first,
and then she fills her throat,
trying to quench her thirst.

She’s dripping now,
so exquisitely wet,
and moaning deeply,
like a good little pet.

The doll lays still,
as she mounts it slow.
She’s lost in her pleasure,
as something brushes her toe.

She opens her eyes,
as a hand grabs her throat,
and another her breast,
her vision starting to float.

She struggles for air,
and feels a ****** as it moves,
and a soft moan escapes it,
as the blackness consumes.

Bucking and fighting,
she claws at its face,
but it simply slides deeper,
and quickens its pace.

She stares down into eyes,
that are filled with life,
and features so sharp,
as to be carved by a knife.

It’s beauty is gone,
simply melted away,
seeming to flow freely,
as if made from soft clay.

As her vision fades,
it moves inside her,
whispering “my princess”,
in a soft little purr.

Cause **** the ******* and the antics
That **** must be for some kind of frantic
And if I don't swallow another pill-ill-ill
ill turn into one of those very frantics
I tried so hard to not be like
Cause **** the ******* and the antics
Not trying to be put in a scary painting
Standing still and painted by someone else
That's why the high is so nice
But you get mad at me for it
For what ?
Being happy and fascinated with life
Is what you get with one of my pearls
Swear to god i'll help you paint a picture
The good the bad it soaks into my skin
And becomes better even when it's just scary

O the woe that lay upon the streets
of the foggy town of London—softly
masked in the air of excitement, the
lives, the deaths, the things, O
their beauty, everlasting beyond them;
white wisps that decorate the edges
of the sordid streets

Vision is illuminated in two, four eyes
One looking, one staring towards it, O
the magnificent ocean in its might;
the destroyer of worlds lay with it,
the creator of the endless night

The sun has lost its battle to the stars;
O, those stars that sing, that cry at the
wreckage below—

“We weep,” they say in its weakened glow
The wisps forming now over sacred clouds
“Begone, O light!” cries the creature below
“Begone, O thing of death upon me, glowing
upon my translucent cape, begone!”

Away and away, the sun mourns its loss
of the sweet ivy that grew upon those walls
“Begone, thing of the night!” it cries in
its post-apocalyptic voice—O a cry not
to be reckoned with in any time nor place

There lay the victims below the bereaved
and lower and lower live they—O, the
horrid undead, the undead that stop
that force of time, beyond the pavement,
beyond the stench, they lay

“Get hence, vile animal,” say they, carrying
their voices over the sound of the wind
O that sound that leaped over the mountains,
A word that shall be the last sentiment of
the living dead, a word spoken from beyond
the milky clouds: “Begone!”