It’s a strange muse, this murderous blue.
So many drawn to her splendor
So many drawn to their death
I ran out of words to describe her beauty. But needed to remember how dangerous beauty can be
“Julie was truly something else.”
I said to myself as I watched her dying.
Oh how I miss her warmth against my chest,
Believe me, I do. I am not lying.
I had my reasons, you see.
‘Cos there’s always a trigger to my madness.
She said this really wasn’t meant to be,
And I couldn’t bear the thought of her with someone else.
Her splattered blood painted a perfect picture,
That only a killer’s eye could see.
Her canvas was the kitchen floor,
And the Artist was me.
Unrequited love hurts.
I am never gonna change.
I don't need to.
I'm already everyhing.
I am what you call deranged.
People see that.
I'm already dead.
Far away and out of range.
I don't want to.
I don't need friends.
I am never gonna change.
Just so you would.
Start to like me.
I am not controlled or stopped.
Say goodnight to niceties.
Goodbye to free will.
If you ever cross me.
I'm sorry doctor.
There's nothing to cure.
I just hurt because I can.
******* a thousand times world :)
You’re the reason your mom is an addict
That wasn’t ****, you secretly like it
Your dad didn’t hug you goodbye on his death bed for a reason
You’re a ****** mother, you’re destroying your children
You can’t even keep your house clean, you’re no better than your step mom
You like it rough because you need to feel abused, ******* freak
You don’t know what normal is, you will never be normal
None of this is even real, you’re insane
You will never succeed at anything
You are a burden to everyone you know
You might as well end it now and spare everyone......
Nothing will **** you faster than your own thoughts.
So what then is it really that can make one wish that they were dead?
It’s a hopelessly, lonely feeling that dominates our heads.
It’s when we can’t begin to find a single starting spot,
to explain to those around us the deadly disease we’ve got.
How do we explain we’re on the verge of death,
when the virus that infects us is as visible as breath?
Completely unseen but a smudge upon a mirror,
it’s creeping up behind you, becoming ever nearer.
People are not prepared, unlike a sickness diagnosis,
no, this creeps up on them one sudden day, unnoticed.
If a doctor could only give you the number of days that we had left,
you’d probably take us out of school, we’d travel, decompress.
You’d maybe even save a life if you took the time to consider,
we are slowly wasting away from hope, or instead, you’ll be a killer.
more suicides occur
in common households
than on the beggarly streets.
could it be that the product
of the American Dream
that the banks created
for the undistinguished
commoner is the real killer?
is it the madness of a sweater vest
or the pressures of nagging wives or
the expectations of a vice president status?
is it never letting down your son named Waldo
for a game of catch or primping and crimping
a well-maintained lawn?
is it the prevention of a foreclosure letter
being dropped off in the mailbox?
four walls filled with depression, anxiety,
mental health, impulsiveness, psychosis
being squashed out like a cockroach
where guts and soul puddle out sideways
while the impoverish flirt with oxygen
and salivate over the simplicities
of a paper bag.
If the soul makes the man
And the flesh a husk
The elaborate hoax of hope
Is the most prolific killer
That ever was
seven years passed like the phases of the moon,
since her parents had their last fight,
their marriage stained maroon.
ever since, she stayed with Daddy,
always on the run.
she learned to live a life of crime,
and to never trust anyone.
now she’s all but sixteen,
but her hands are stained in blood.
she shot the sheriff where he stood,
his crimson tears a flood.
Nero is bald,
He's also fat,
He's **** and devilishly fast.
Nero's a killer,
Nero is here,
He's **** and his voice is clear.
Nero is angry,
He's madly mad,
He's **** and so, so sad.
Nero is real,
He's truly true,
He's **** and he lives in you.