If living is literally Hell

And agony accompanies my every step

I'm glad even if you aren't.


I'm here once more with you.

What else could I ask for?

Subside, O hunger of mine.

Satisfy thyself of cravings,

So we might co-exist just yet.


Play our tunes so fires might just extinguish,

Instead of being set alight once more.

We're in love with the things we can't see,

Searching for meaning in the silent groves,

Dreading the day we have to face ourselves,

In mirrors glazed with old reflections,

Of how we used to be.

The ache of always looking for someone to complete you.

When you know you're not all that whole yourself

<Twang> ; went your yearning, the strings of your soul.

Til when, does your heart have to wait?

And if takes a lifetime to hold peace,

And if you teach me what it feels like to be home once more,


I'm happy with what we have.

The fluttering of eyelids breathed new life into the moments caught like fresh Polaroid snaps, the afterburn of the camera flash persisting, like a memory that fought its way to remain, resisting time and wear til the end.

The flesh knows the aching, burning want. The mind knows the still, cold pools of fools, the soul rolling with the blows of said fools, who thought time as it was would never be everlasting : A shrieking defiance, with the Chariot being pulled along by hanged men ; an everlasting idiocy.

But dreams & memories do just that. Syphilis-like consistency, marauding us all with persistent innocent tendencies to drown us in nostalgia, regret and fury. Yet we still have them on repeat. To not have known, is far more terrifying than not knowing. After all, we fear what we don't know. What we don't understand.

Extinguish the me

To find the you

Cremate the when

To nourish the now

Cherish the moments

Embrace the life you have.

She is my silent purpose

My unwritten desire

Until one day she realizes

I'm the little pretender

Never getting tired of her.

distancing oneself from the tell-tale signs

of morbid fascination with you

like thy myth

the rousing rumour you sell

hapless I am

entwined, I'm still.

How much farther down the rabbit hole?

How far before the taste becomes bland?

How much more of myself do I have to give?

This is a prompt of peace.

This is a concession of cliches.

I have hungered beyond my ken.



I am killing every piece of me that's ever lived, so I might remain humble.

But this hunger will never be sated.