MAY YOU BE BLINDED NOT BY LOVE BUT BY MY HATRED THAT YOU WILL NEVER GET TO SEE THE DAYLIGHT OR ANY GIRL'S SMILE

MAY YOU LOSE YOUR SENSE OF TOUCH THAT YOU WOULD NEVER GET TO ROAM YOUR HANDS OVER ANY OF THEIR SKIN

MAY YOU TURN DEAF AND NEVER HEAR THEIR SWEET VOICES LURING YOU INTO THEIR TRAPS

MAY YOU LOSE YOUR NOSE AND NEVER SMELL HER VANILLA SCENTED SKIN AND THAT THEY WILL ALL DESPISE YOU FOR LOOKING LIKE VOLDEMORT

MAY YOU NEVER LIVE A NORMAL LIFE AND CURSE YOU, AND YOUR LOVE LIFE

MAY YOUR WILL BE ILL WITH MY SCORN FOREVER AND EVER

I have nothing to say.

Do I have nothing to say?
An empty 1% Lowfat milk carton on the floor says otherwise, and a woman screaming to be understood; for her self proclaimed misery to be reconciled by any other but herself, says otherwise to that otherwise.

I am not sure which side I should take.
Regardless, the heartless engine upon my ear is ready to evolve;
to explode with purpose beyond that of its original design.
"I am not ready to die." I say.
But what knows all knows we are always ready.

Ready to die, to brace the screaming self righteous;
the story writers who readily cast you as the enemy
because the idea of fighting with their selves scares them shitless.

In a better world...

every TV, in every house hold,
comes with it's very own blindfold
so that the children won't be able to see
the horrible, bloated beast
that media has come to be.

Time and time again
I have raised a hand
or a fist, or a blade,
to destroy this thing I love
and all the things I've made.

Perhaps it is this skin,
that encompasses me
like an unwanted lover,
that makes me see these flaws
in one thing or another.

It is most likely me,
not you or they,
who created this unholy rage
that has made me hate this art
and set fire, not pen, to the page.

The foolish churls
and putrid youths
who plague and prowl these hallways
who abuse this sacred art and leave it
lost among the daily craze.

While I may applaud your work
and hand out digital hearts,
there are others amongst the crowd
who pervert the most basic concept
in any way that they are allowed.

I swear to the eternal void,
to the primeval seas of blackness,
to all that will ever last
that if this kind of beauty can be ruined,
then we all should die, quick and fast.

I think one of the worst things
about remembering bits of
you.

is that it always hits at
the times when I feel
the most bliss.

you truly were
a monster
you broke things,
I never knew could break.

and made me forget
all the parts of myself
I had finally grown to like.

but

I refuse to let this poem
be filled with the hate
you spewed into me

instead,
I will thank you.

because now,
when I look over at him.

I see all the things I needed
and all the things
you could've never given me.