Mahogany separates me from the earth.
The world is quiet in this dull dark dark.
So I wait for the end to begin.
I wait for my life to finally end.

I linger in a mist hidden in an abyss.
Still sitting in wait for the deadliest bliss.
I'm happy now or atleast I think I am.
It's hard to know for sure something you haven't felt before.

So I go back and forth trying to figure myself out.
It doesn't work now I'm more confused then before.
Why does life begin only to come to an awful end.
This circle we live in is trully pointless.

Now all that brightens my day is the crimson liquid from my veins.
It flows then slowly makes me whole.
In death I trully fill my soul.
In pain I find my only pleasure.

Darkness.
That's all I see now.
It welcomes me and holds snuggly.
In it's embrace I feel the warmth of a friend.

A friend.
What did that ever mean.
They came, went and never stayed.
Surely if others had them then I was at fault.

A dark cloud rumages around my mind.
It whispers death into my head.
I try to breathe but don't have breath.
I dream of death.

There is something wrong with me.
I crave the night and hide from the light.
I am all that is wrong in the world.
So in compassion I take myself from this life.

What infinte pleasure I live in.
Finding joy and delight in my ever twist and turn.
The impurity of the world delights me.
Death and torture have begun to tease me.
Like ******* to a growing child.

What sweet ecstasy the macabre expounds to me.
It seems all I want in the world are tools to make my life harder.
It's to easy to come by happiness in this state.
I was made for this world.
Sent by god to enjoy the evilest of her spoils.

I am a gift to all that is disgusting on earth.
Like a tree I clean the air of agony.
This is done by stuffing my face with it.
Ooh how beautiful blood trully is.
But your to busy feeling joy to admire this.

I pitty the stupidity of the emotionally and mentally sane.
I wonder what lies they were told that make them feel whole.
Do they not see the fire beneath their feet.
Do they not feel the heat burn through their souls.
Or am I blessed with a sadness that helps me feel true emotions.

I am a parasite that spreads disease.
However I spread it only to those in need of me.
I engrave my skin with all my sins.
Then whisper sweet nothings to a dead tree.
Often I spread ink filled with my dreams all over screens.
Oh what a creep I seem to be.

You dream of love.
I dream of lust.
Yet I am called a foul.
In truth only one of these lies from the world we live in can come true.
But you carry on pining for the wrong one.

You still have dreams.
But somehow hate the idea of a neverending sleep.
What a fool you are to wish you can be better.
When you can always wish not to be.
How can you fear the wrath of a deity that won't even let you be.

Do you really live when you fear death.
Or do you breathe bubbles of oxygen in your watery web of lies.
Continuing to tell yourself untruths in order to feel alive.
It's sad how trully depressed you are don't you think.
You won't feel this truth for it's a mirror you refuse to see your ****** through.

I wonder how vulnerable you feel knowing I know to much about you.
You'll probably look me in the eyes and hold back tears.
Even if you do I know and enjoy the thought that I have violated you.
You are putty in my hands.
All because I know you beg for a better person to notice you.

But they won't.
Infact they never do.
You are nothing and everyday you try to forget.
But your inferiority is my truth so I own it.
You are are ugly beyond compare.
So ugly that you cry unprovoked for hours and hours wishing your life would end.

If my life were a book, written in ink,
It would tell a tale brought back from the brink
With sentences well constructed with rhyme,
Of inkblots made by wasting precious time,
Of full-stops, colons, and commas galore,
Filled with desire to learn, and explore,
Aging sheets of regret pondering the past,
Some wondering how long the story will last.
Only Death takes away this humble pen
It's just a small matter of how and when-
This book may never be a bestseller
But it will be honest- a truth-teller
That's unfinished and revised endlessly,
Until it joins the pages of history.