Death, Torture, Nightmares.
Fake.

If there was a god,
I wouldn't  be here.

Goodbyes don't mean the end,
For every book, never
truly ends.

Even the biggest hearten can be hallow on the inside.


But I don't even have a heart.

Most hate others, I
hate myself.

Life.

How am I supposed to help others, when I can't even help
myself?

I've tried keep him locked away,
Hidden, long enough that time
will erase him.
I hate him, but he feeds on my hate.
I need him, but don't want him.
I fight him, but he still wins.
But....

He is me

I said I'm fine.
I lied.

You can get so much information from simple things people do;
How they walk,
How they talk,
How they write,
How they react,
And their art....

WhaT d O yo u sEe wHen yOu l o o k aT m E?

Some of us are become insane from situations or people...
But some of us
are just born
insane.

In the end, as all things, It will fit together.

What you don't know
will **** you.

I've lied for so long,
My life has become
a lie.

It's ironic really, how all truths can so easily become lies.

Everything.

Life, the long played game, of pain and fame in the brain.
These are the things that drive our hope, of things to come,
a dwindling hope and a prize. These are the things that drive
the game of pain and fame in our brains.

One of the scariest things out there.

Lies.
Pain.
Time.
Wasted.

Most afraid of death, aren't afraid of life. But death is apart of life,
So what are they afraid of?

I know who "They" are, "They" are the voices. But I've lost who I am. I guess, in a way, I am "Them", and they are "Me", Right?

ThEy sa y to l o v e, FirsT, You have to love your S elf.
                       But what
                                            If I
                                                      h
                
                                                          A

   ­                                                          t

                                                              ­ e

m Y
       seLf?

Even the most loyal, can have their honor tarnished.

The air is becoming heavy.
You ca n't br e
                             a
                                 t
                            ­      h
                                  e
                                  .


You wake up, You've seen this place before.
You're eyes are hazy, All you can make out is the darkness.
You hear something, a sort of rasping noise. You try to get up to look for a light source, but realize you can't move....

You began to understand what's happening. You start to panic for you know what will unfold next. You hear a scream and try calling out to the source. You know they are in pain for you can feel their pain, Their emotions...
You still can't move, you start to feel the blood running down from your shoulder to your arm.

You can feel every cut, every puncture, every drip of blood falling from your finger tips... It feels like Hell.

You are being tortured, for what reason you do not know. Nor shall you ever. You start to loose your grip on reality and fantasy.
You start to black out....


The air is becoming heavy.
You ca n't br e
                             a
                                 t
                            ­      h
                                  e
                                  .





                                "This is the way the world ends,
                                 This is the way the world ends,
                                This is the way the world ends...
                               Not with a bang, But a whimper...."

You wake up in a unfamiliar place, It's happening again.
The story is the same as always, The screams... The Pain... The Death... The Torturer... The limbs being torn away, each cut, each tendon being torn...

You wake up, You're sweating. The room is dark, you check yourself for cuts and blood to find nothing.
The room is cold, you left the window open again.

You try to go back to sleep, but you know there will be no more sleeping tonight.

Sometimes, I feel so little.
I wonder, am I human?
Or just a machine?

Some consider me a poet,
a builder,
an artist.

But I'm just a crazy man no one will ever understand

Memories haunt the mind,
Of a time with blood and grime,
Games of torture and games of the mind.

These are the memories that haunt my mind.

They say a person's past, determines who they are.
What if, I can't remember my past?

Over the years, I can't tell what are memory's, or just blanks my twisted mind filled in.

Mental.
Voices, Nightmares, Flashes, Hell.

In the mind of a builder,
Everything has to fit together....


Everything.

Most believe that people have souls,
In which I must ask, which one controls the person?

The mind? Or the soul?

My Life.
My Pain.
My Hate.
My Stress.
My Flashes.

My Nightmare.

The darkest thing you'd ever see.

Even the most naive will learn.

One of the things that makes someone, somebody.

What if I'm no one?

I feel insane.
Lost.
Betrayed.
Broken.
Hurt.

I can live with my sanity, "Nevermore."

I try to wake up, Only
to find, I was never
asleep.

The funny thing about nightmares is, I fall sleep, I have them, I wake up, I live them.

Pai n      voi ces b od ys c o r p s e s gu ilt hat re d ang er sad ness blo od gu ts  ste  nch  de a th    he ll peo ple      ene mys all ies fam ily lov ed o n e s  fri ends   se arin g pa i n b r ok en        b o nes      to rtu re N O mer cy        
men tal    sani ty L O S T                       m in d  br o k e n HIM I am HIM n o i c a nt b e ple as e  just  
ki ll  M E?

The night was as dark as my soul.
The stars, my last hopes.

Thus was the night of the eclipse.

Sleep, lacking.
Nightmares, plentiful.

Nights with lights always have a price.