My suspicion
Intercepts
Your deception
I don’t believe

Don’t call me paranoid
Because I see through your lies
No I'm not a skeptic
I'm just not dumb and blind

You'll never have my trust
I'll never confide in you
My faith was just sentenced to death
It's still hanging from the noose

My suspicion
Intercepts
Your deception
I don’t believe

Put your trust in no one
Then you'll never get hurt
Put it all in yourself
And see what its worth

I don’t believe in you
Someone I can't rely om
Your stories are fiction
So it makes me uncertain

Used to give people my trust
Then they'd throw it all away
Bought too many bridges
That’s why I hesitate

My suspicion
Intercepts
Your deception
I don’t believe

Put your trust in no one
Then you'll never get hurt
Put it all in yourself
And see what its worth

I don’t depend
I just doubt
The flames been
Blown out

My suspicion
Intercepts
Your deception
I don’t believe

Put your trust in no one
Then you'll never get hurt
Put it all in yourself
And see what its worth

Airport

Covering my face with my hands, there is an incessant in-pouring of light. I feel like I am in a casket. My brain seems to be swelling, in tune with an invisible pendulum. Waves of nausea flood my body.  Small children thunder around in front of me, like hysterical nightmare projections.

I have never enjoyed being in Airports. They are morgues with an added buzz of visitors and commerce. The sterility of the interior design and the nervous excitability of the passengers sets me very quickly on edge. As a salesman for a major international e-commerce company, I am required to fly often.

To avoid excess stress and anxiety I prepare meticulously. Nothing must be left to chance. I am regimented and purposeful during my preparation. If the luggage allowance is 15kg, then I make sure that my suitcase is dead on that weight. I reweigh my suitcases on several sets of scales. Checking there is no error in their calibration.  I do not carry any prohibited travel items. I ring airline customer support several times to double-check. I rummage through my suitcase repeatedly. I allow no error to go unnoticed. I google articles about travel preparation, checklists, essential travel items and I read articles about anxiety related to fear of flying. Neither my emotional state nor practical matters are to take me by surprise. I am like a samurai undertaking pre-battle rituals.

Check-in is open. I funnel through to the check-in desk. There are several people before me; their movements generate a low pitch buzzing in my head. They are hyper-kinetic, speaking at unreasonably loud volumes in an indecipherable language. My arms vibrate down by my sides, my tongue thickens. I feel warmer and more vulnerable. I start to think about the first meal I’ll eat in Rekyjavik. I have panicked thoughts, recognition of myself in these thoughts is minimal. I swing around to check that nobody is standing directly behind me. The several people check in without issue. A man in all black clothing, I presume, a security guard intercepts me and asks me to go to desk 13. Although there is a sign hanging down from the ceiling with directions to check-in desks 10-15, I am unable to locate desk 13. I double back on myself, I ask the check-in assistant from desk 12 where desk 13 is. She says that it has been temporarily moved to the second floor of the terminal. Desk 13 on the second floor doesn't in the slightest resemble a check-in desk. A burly individual with an absence of ****** expressions or an officious manner mans an oak desk. There is no conveyor belt for the luggage, only a shopping trolley. ''Ermmm can I check in here?''. The man whom lacks an officious manner nods curtly without removing his eyes from the newspaper he is reading. "Documentation''. I hand him my documentation. ''Passport''. ''Going to Reykjavik?'' ''Erm yes''. ‘’Follow me’’.
The man, who lacks an officious manner, leads me a door behind the check-in desk that doesn’t in the slightest resemble a check-in desk. A young child with golden blonde hair in white robes pushes the shopping trolley behind me. We enter a room that is high like a cathedral and tiled in exquisite mosaic tiles; alternating gold and white into infinity. The ceiling is so high it seems to disappear off into a void. Sat down at a bog-standard mass manufactured desk in front of me, is a man who must be at least 13 feet tall, he has enormous ears like an elephant and is speaking in rounds of what sounds like the same phrase. I do not recognise the language. I am ceased from behind by the blonde child and the man who lacks an officious manner. The man with enormous ears like an elephant screams ‘’I hate Iceland’’, the blonde child laughs uncontrollably grabbing his stomach like he is holding his insides in. The ceiling begins to close in and a space opens in the floor. The man who lacks an officious manner says in a sinister tone says ‘’Do you think you would be forgiven”. I say ‘’I have got a ticket, I’m going to Iceland on business’’ I feel a prodding in my lower back and then darkness.

Our love was like a negative parabola;
Where we thought we found happiness
We only found the vertex

And then it came crashi ng d o w   n

Pocketbook

Transformational intercepts,
messages to the brain.

Time babe, it's time,
to take a next step.
change the bulb
to a higher power.

100 watts insufficient to light
the forward motion of a
Great Leap Forward,
like in a prior writ, when,
limitation awareness
was a borderline crossed.

Like learning to walk without tottering;
We probably don't know we passed a line,
invisible to ourselves,
but all clear to everybody else,
on that special day, one,
that just came and went:
when you could no longer leave home
without a pocketbook

We were accessorized with body parts
most useful to make our way thru life,
but our exterior-designer
neglected to provide pockets knowing
full well that fashion acessorizing
was more that just a way to carry tools;

Individuation, maturation, needed,
a way to communicate I've arrived

Ain't no child no more,
double negatives
a thing of the past,
cause once you leave the
comfort of the abode with
handbag corpuscles inhaled,
from that day onwards,
you could no longer:

Walk these feminine streets,
leave home,
without a pocketbook,

Judgement day becomes
Every day, nowadays, so,
when from the cave you emerge,
and face the world:

Gonna need what ya gonna need,
to negotiate the way through,
don't matter what's
inside your handbag
or your head,  
if you are eight or
eighty eight,
you know,
you believe, you need
in handbags,
as much as you believe in god

I am incomplete,
my body undressed for all to observe
If I walk down the street
after that day,
that came and went,  
when you could no longer
leave home without a pocketbook

Amusing ditty,
nah that's not my speed,
this is a treatise on
serious matters,
when changes in our lives occur,
when we earn a stripe on our sleeves

Pilgrim progress to
a feeling of vive la difference!
who I am is not who I was,
awoken from a previous dream,  
marks on my body will come,
some wanted,
some unwanted,
some happily dismissed
like the curse of braces

Free at last,
free at last to forget
a painful child's past,
sometime it's losing,
sometimes it's adding on,
but for sure, the day I changed,
was the day,
when you could
no longer leave home
without a pocketbook

Oh boys,
don't think you are excluded
from this rite de passage,
I'm one of you and I know
what we kept secreted
in our over stuffed wallets.

Ain't referring to our student org. card
or the emergency folded twenty
Dad gave you in case,
somehow you got
on the wrong bus and
ended up on the
wrong side of town
where bad things
could be found,
somewhat more easily.

Like the comic book store,
next door to the tattoo parlor,
next to where the
Nice Jewish Boys
where never supposed to go,
and the Stars of David and crosses
were removed discreetly prior to arrival,
like Portnoy foretold in
Technicolor detail.

I know you well recall
that bar mitzvah party, school dance,
When the bottles fell to the floor
unbroken, spinning, pointing to you,
When you realized it was that day,
When you could no longer
leave home without a wallet

Times they don't change
all that much,
and pocketbooks now called
Handbags I am told,
and year old babies play
with iPads like they were
born knowing how!

but I ain't impressed that much,
cause I know that it may  
come sooner as the world changes,
there still,  always be,
a day of  painful,
transformational,
generational passing,
when indelible, invisible
birthmarks somehow
became both visible and erased.

Though they may
come different ways than they use to,
in case new parents need guidance,
**It is still that day when
their little girl,
can no longer leave home
without a pocketbook

Oh joy and happiness!
How you fill my world with wonders.
Oh, how I fly with freedom under me.
Oh, how this world seems to support every move i make.

Oh joy and happiness!
How my c̶̤̊̀̈́̈̈́͑̌̓̀̿̔̓͠up fills with yoṵ̴̧̻͔̪̳̮̼̹̲̆̾͂͆̇̇̾̾̈̌͘r juice,
but just under all the liquid-
o̷͈͚̲̯͖̱̜͇̫͎̻̤̍̊̊͗̇̎̏̄̎͜͝h joy and happiness
how your colorful thickness ḣ̶̦̳͓̮͔̕i̶̢̨̬̰͉͙̗̫̩̼̩̗̬̍̽̆̃̏d̴̞̍͐̀̇͜͝͝es
multiple r̸͉͆͘ò̸̥̤̞̣͜t̴̜̞̹̖͚̰̥̑́̎̎ͅt̷̟͙̹͋́̔͋̒͆̒̐̃́̕e̴̲͇̱̲̲̳͖͉̓͌̃̈̑͂̄̑͒̾͜͝n­̶͇͂̈́̄͒ *****
P̴̢̨̰̥͈͕̱̪̰͊̈́̉͗͐͊̆̂͐̄̈́̈͘͝ǫ̸̢͉̘̰̯͉̘̮͈̝̙̅͒̓̀͑̃ḯ̴̧͓̥̱̰͔̖͚̜͈͎­̦̇͋̑̈̊̑͂̇͗͗̕͘͜͠ͅs̷̛͔͉̤͕͖͙͇̟̭͈͛̓̓̊͑̎̆͐̌ͅọ̵̡̨̻͕͚̖͎̦̼̝͎̲̤̘͛͝ņ̸͍̺̤͓̙̙­̘̫͈̄ͅe̵̢̧͍̖̜̮̘̖̮̖͖̼̼̦̔̅͗̓͊d̴̨̨̡̛̛̜͇̦̱͇͔̘̫̭͉̳̯̿̔̒̾̇̇̓̀̀̒̋ ̴̢͇̺̘͍͚͉̦̣͖̻̦͔̲͊̈́̆́̓̈́ḇ̶̭̟̣̠͕͍̝̆̊̌̓͛́̆̈́̊̈́̋̅̕͜͝ͅǫ̶̧̬̼͉̗̘̞̗̺͚̦͇͙­͌͛́̐͊̃̀̊̂͊̓́͝͝͠ͅb̸͍͕͚̥̺̰̦͒͜ͅă̸̬͚̗̩̯̩̻̫͙̬̦͚̼̲͆͗̀̈̀͌̉̎̽̄̎͘͝
poisone­d boba
poisoned bob
poisoned bo
poisoned b
poisoned
poisone
poison
poiso
pois
poi
po
p
.
.
.
b̷̡̢̺̥͚̲͍͚̏̄́­̈́́͆̈́̽̊͛̚ͅo̸̞̠̞̊͛̒̔͒̚ḅ̶̣̘̹̊̌͛͝a̴̡̛̼̥͔̼̠̓͌̓̎̎̕͠ ̵̛̩̮̺̫̜̟͓̫̗͈̰͇͒͌̌̑̋͠͠ͅţ̷͎̟͕̰̲͍̥̤̲̖̮̊͋͗͗̋̾̓̔̆͑̉̓ę̷̦̦̹͍̐͂̅̉̉́̈̃͛̓͌̿­a̴͇̹̭̯̮͙̱͋̿̏͜ ̷̨̢͙͚̜͖̻̬̲̹̤̳̻̔͊͂̈̀̐͌͒̒́͝k̶̻̳̀͌̓̓̈́͒͆̅̏͝͝͝i̷̯̜͒l̴̪̯̳͊͌̌̉̄͗́̈́̌̌̅̃­̓l̵̢̼̱̠͖̞̪̺̣̞̥̜͑̍̽̌͝͝ͅs̶͈̼̫̤̝̤̥͍͇̻̣͖̮̫̲͒̾͆̓́̀̈́̇̅̚͝͝ ̸̥̖̘̱̺͙̫͔̪̑̄̀͋͜ͅw̸͇̩̑̈́͐͒̈̐̈̈́̆̏̕ị̸̢̛̗̫̣͙̅̈̾̃̒̉̕t̵̡̪̪̪̱̦̭̩̬̮͑̉̈́̌­͒̔͛͊̒́͘ḩ̵̡̛͈͖̫̈́̈̐͗̓̊̐̔̿ ̸̢̨̗̫̪͙̖̩̠͎̝̘̂͋̌p̶̡̛̫̰̖̺̞̱̥̬̰͗̊̿̍̽̇̓o̴̡͖̫̘͕̲̳͔̗̫̔͌̑̾̿̀̏͗̈̑͐̕ȉ̷̖͉̮­̱̮̭͂̾̐̌̂̀̀͜s̵̛͍͔̍̃̾o̷̧̻̤̬̣̣̗͖̬̒̀͌̏͆͒́͗̋͘͜͝͝n̴͙̖͉̻͖̮͉̝͔̐̇͋͌̆͒͒̍̀͗͒­͐̚s̵̢̨̛̠̹̖̣̱̻̭̄̀̍͒̉͗̒̋͑̚̚ͅ ̴͈͎̰̖̗͌̔̄̃́͐̎s̴̨̳̲̣͉̳̥̱̙̀̂̌̋̅͑͂̏̄͑͘ͅt̸͉͊̀͌́͑͐̿͆͝r̵͉͒̃̓̚̕͘͠e̸̛̠̗̗̞­͇͎̫̙̻̮̩̦̞̯̓̄͋́̋̓̎͝å̴̟͚͎͙͊̀̆̊͝k̴̦̘̥̪̟̭̤͍̙̋͗̆ͅs̴̜͉̯͂͒ ̴̫͋̽̋́̓̈́̅̔͛̅̓̎ơ̷̲̐̅̓̀͆͐͂͋̊̓̓̽f̷̨̫͉̹̞̈͌̉̉̈́͛̎̍͛̒͝ ̷̢̦͚̯͍͇͙̩͎̻̖̳͖͑͛̽̆͂̀̉̇̉̅̑̍̚͝b̵̡͚̺̥̭̙̬͎̜̳̱̤̭̩̏̿̐̿͛̏͂̚͘͘l̴̠̹͓̻̪̼͎̪̱­̼̓͒̈͛͐̀͆̀̃ͅͅo̸̡̡̥̣̥̖̻͇̘͕͒́͌̒̊̚ó̴̩͚͈̮̺̌̒̈͌̉̀̄͆́̓̀͠d̴̛̩̖͕͗̍̉̓ ̴̨̲͖͖̩͉͔̠̖̲̥͍̀̈́̓͌̃́͛̿̏͝t̴̨̪͉͖̣͖͓͖̦̞̳̊͆̇̀̏h̷̛̖͇̞̰͚̜͙̘͈̄̀̀̓͐͊̍̏͗̓a­̵̼̝̣͊̓̑͘t̷͕̟̑̅̌̔͋̈̆͒͊́͆͋͘͝ ̷̨̨̛̬͖̩͓͚͔̬̥̯̰̯̤̭͒̔̏̇̇̓͊̐b̷̨̨͖̳͚̼̑̋̂͜͠ȓ̵͖̺̮̘͕̜̈́̾̈̽͑̿̂̅̈́͌͒̅͛͠ǐ̷͇­͇͕̬̟͉͔̺̫͔̅͊̌̈́͗̉̾̀͆̇̄͊͘ͅͅn̷̝̾̑͗̆͜g̸̛͈̖̖̺͖͈̙̘̋̀̓͒̈́͗̄͂͘͝͠ ̷̨̧̡͖͖̺̬͇̙͓̠̋̏́̅̾̆̓̈́̇̕͘͠o̵͈̙̼͑ņ̷̘̈́͝͝l̵̮̐͑̈̾͝y̷͎͇̞̥̓̓̆̎̏͂̆͛̒̒̎ ̶̼̖͕̘̱̭̣̙̄d̷̢̢͙͇̋͐̍e̴̮̘̼͔͋́͛̂̔͆̓̄̐̾͆̆̈́͝a̷̛͓͕̼̬̤̺̖̓̈͌̎͐̍́͑̑̍t̷̡͔̳­̯͙̯͇̭̖̯̭͆̐̀̑͛̑̀͐̓̚͝h̵̛̰̭͕̖̭̼͕̝̭̔̐̕ͅ ̸͕͚̫͗t̷̛̯̝̲̙̥̠̘̮̄̈͑̀͆̉̔̄͂̈́͘͜ǒ̷̡̡̺̤̼̖͙̻̮̖́̔̅͂͊͋ ̷̛̮̣͓͍̦̱̤̗̬̹͍̯̘͉̓̅͗̂̊͛̌̄͑̐̄͒̈͐t̴̛̼͇̟̟͓̲̯̬̲͚͇̹̤̾̏̍̈͆̓̈́̐̎͜͜͝ḩ̴̡̻͚͎­̤̘̟̣̝̰̣̜̽̂̾̏̽̃͐̎͋̀̀̕͝o̶̢̰̺̠̟̱̬͚̺̍̅͌͌̿͒͆̆͘ś̸̡̥̲̬͖̥̬̤̕ē̶̺̙͈̘͇͇̳̱̻͓̹­͜ ̸̛̮̣̦̜̙͔͉͇͈͕̦̝̻̒̉̒̃̈́̓́̀w̷̡̬͍͇̜̭͉͇̱̮̬͔̽͒̇͌̇̀̄͗̇̎͘͠͝h̴͚̮͚̱̜̪͉̿̅̍̈́­͆̀̽̌̚͝͝o̵̧̲͙̍̇ ̴͈̻̪͓̪̫̝͠ͅc̵̫̾o̶̞͎͈̼͇̠͕̩̤̰͕̠̫͐͂̅̇̈̇̓̈́̌̀̍̍n̷̗͇̟͙̖̅͝s̵̨̨̧͉͇̈́̔͂̆͜u­̷̹͚̩̫͛̈́͌̌͗͠m̷̢̢̺͙̫̖̱͕͖͕̟̤͉̒́̀͂̈̕ȩ̷̭͉̤̋̆̍͠,̸̰͊̆́̆̊̏̍̍̒̆̄̓̕͠ ̸̢̡̜̪͔̭͓͖͓̏͑͂̀͂̌́̒̍a̸̛̼̮̫͉̻͓̦͓̘͛̈́̓̏̊͐͊̌̈̒̊͝͝l̸͉͇̼͉̫̜̘̞̦̟͈̰̱̙̾̊̔̐­̑̑̈́̅̇͐͘͜͝l̴̛̲̙͙̱͚̠̫̞̯͇̼̥̱̭̔̈́̌́͂̽ ̶̬̘̰͇̲͈̪͍̙͑̈́̒̃͗̂̊͑̈́̒̚͠t̴̡̛̤̺͕͓͚h̶̢̛̜͖͖͙̺̤̤̹̝̦͓͇͈̎̑̅̊͑̄̾͒͝ȩ̵̛̤͈̣­̮̥͙̖̜̹̙̤̈́͗̊͑̆̌̀̌̾͛̑ ̵͔̻̫̲̩̯̺̉͗́̆̈̿̾̏ļ̷̢̜̦͙̙̀̎̂͋͐̚̕͝i̴̛̱̽͐̒͊̆̆̍̈́̑̐q̵̧͖͍̥̟͍͓̠̜̻̗̞͆́́̈́­͝͝ͅū̴̩̦̼̦͉͍̺͎͐̈́̇͘͜i̶̛̻̱̭̼̥͑̓̂̍̿̋̕d̵͔͔̤͍̳͓̖̟̦͔̝̻͝ͅ ̵̛̻͈̖̺̠̋́̈́͑̍̀̆͝i̷̫͎̲̬̦̘̠͙̰̘̙͒̃ͅͅș̵̛͎͍͍̼̲͚̅͑̽̉͌̑́́̒̀ ̷̨̱̟̩͈̣̦̹̗̘͙̫̬͈́́̓͊̆́͐͒͘͜͝f̸̧̢̢̯̦͈̺͍̪̩̬̏̒̈́ͅo̴̦͕̓̀̀̔r̴̛͚̬͓̮̭̈́̊̔͆­̓̾̄̚ ̵̢̼͍͎̪̦̘̐̓͆͑͒̿͌͂̃̑̒̋̆̅h̸̢̧̛͈̘̟͇̣̪̰̫̙̬̑̓̃̿̏͊̽́͊̾͒͘͝i̶̛̹̪̬̾̽̑̀̇̑́͘d­̶̡̟̙͚̮̳͉͚̲͕́̊́̚͝͝i̸̡͕͍̪͆̈́ͅn̷̛͙͛̉͌̈̈́̂͂͘͠ġ̶̩͇̜̺̮͔̗̼̰̱͓̘̪̐̉͐̔͗̎̿͘͝­ͅͅ ̶̧̡̩̭̮̭͚͌̋͂̑̄͝t̶̻̞͉͖̟̦̙͙̳̝͓̳͇͈̖͆͌̊̎̿̾̈̕h̷̡̧̲̗̳͔̞̠̯̤̝̞͖̲̄̃̐͊́̇̂̍̐̑­̏͊e̸̢̲̖͔̲͙̭̖̬͈̼͇̼͆̒ͅ ̷̗͋͂̐ẗ̸̲̝̗̻͕͔̹͙̻́͌͋͌͆̈́̏̾̑̌̾̚r̵̡̧̫̟̼̥͔̮̳̪͔̙̫͍̂̑̍́̃̒̓͝͠u̴̜͓͙̮̪̰̠͖̘­̤̗͊̈́͝ͅṱ̷͎̞͖̠͉̟̖̳̣͚̭̩̚h̷̨̩͎̠̣̞͇̜̰̳͈͚̩̤͋͒̈̈͊̽͋̉̊̕͘͜͠͝͝͠ ̵̬͚͇̉́͂̾͌̎͒̽̐͜t̶̨̤̝̥̘̲̖͉͇̦͕̽̅́̒̀̈́͘͝h̴̭͎̙͇̆a̸̧̺͎̰͈͉͓̝͍̰̖͕̜̩̤͆̀͊̉́­͊̍̀̐̇̿̃͘t̷̡̛͉͎͖͈̠̉̒̍̆͂̋͑̿̓̒͘͝ ̶͙̠͉̠̺̯͚̪͎͈̯̫̙̀̈͋͂͗͛̐̇̀͘ͅi̵̢̹͖͈̓̎̈̈̾̽̓͐̀̑̄͛̈́́͘ ̵̘͔͖̰͉͈̺̒h̷̖̤̪̳̖̥̫̤͍̟̗̼͌͒͜ͅͅa̸̧̧̞͕͙̰̮͓͙̗͓̹̺̝͐́́͜v̵̞͚̰̣͐̌͘̚ͅè̸̛̫̩̹­̖͒̈́̃͑ ̸̡̡̢̞̱͈͚͎̯̏͑̔̍̍͐̿͊̿͌͒͝͝ͅp̵̨̛̜̮̱̠̻̩̪̮͚̹̣̞̠̼͂̆͑̔̀͑̍̀̑̀́͂́͘ò̶͇̬̂i̸̗̋­̆͒́̃̔̆̒̿̉͝s̵̟̹̀̈́̑͒̃̐̀͋̌̾͑̚ͅo̶̡̗̰̼̙͇͌͐͗̊̂̀͑̋̒͌̃̔̀̋̚͜n̵̡͔͑̇̀̓̾͒̽̈́­̽̐͝ͅẻ̷̟͈̣͙͔̬̹̄̀̑̓̇̾͝d̷̟̼̹̞̣͚͌̊̇͆̈́̏́͋̓̔̽̎̈́̕͠ ̴̨͍̱̺͍͙̤͈̼̐͜ͅt̴̙̲͕̓̉̀̆̿́̎̄̚͝h̵̡̡͇͈̭͖̤͈̙̣̳̼͎͈̎̂̔̓͆͗̀̆̋̿͒̕͠ě̷͉̤̗̗͇̫­̮̹̝͔̱̰̝̙̒ ̶̨̠̬͓̠̪̖̦́̏̽͑d̵̮̱̾̃̽̍̽̌r̵̗̈ǐ̶̛͈̭̗̥́̂̓͗̔͐̑͛͘͝ͅņ̵̢̳̭̖̈́̌̈͗͂͛́̑͜k̵̘̘­̈́̽̇̅̓̏̾͛̓͒͝ ̶͔̗̈́̿̀͗̀w̶̙͍͚͓̤̭̝̞͍̮̝͍͙͛̔͒̆̓̈̈̓̍̀͘͘̚͝͝ͅa̴̢̛̛͗͑̈̾̿̽͗̆̔̿̚î̸̡̛̓̆̿͋͒­̏̾t̸̡͔̭̦̘̅͂͌̽́̓̿̍̉̇̅̃͘̕ȋ̸̙͂̐̋́̎̌͊͐͌͊͝n̵̛͖͖̍̍͂̑̃́͊͘͠g̶̝̹̻̠̝͉̘̩͉̮̙̗­͆͜ ̸̡̨̡̨̮̞̦̞̳̗̖͈͎͎̍͌̈́͋͆͂͒ͅf̸̡̛̟͎̞͎͙̮̰̓̅͆͗̊̾̂̓̈́͒̐̂͛͝o̸̧̥̘̜̪̪̯̅̌r̴̨͔­̝̠͇̖̘̪͍̲͔̙̈́͊̔ͅ ̷̢͔̬̺̭̌̐͒͑ͅt̸̨̢̺͉̟̖̪̮̺̂ͅḩ̴̧̢̗̲̻̺̭͍̭͊̈́́̍̊̿̃͌͋o̴̝̭̗̔̎͌̑̈́̀͆̐̕͝ş̵̧̪­͚̮̟̩̟̔͆̓̑̈́͐͐̕e̸̢̮̤͍̮̙͍̹̘̹̽͐̓́̂̓͆̃̈͗͊̂͝͝ͅ ̸̢̝̻̖͇͕͈̜͓̌̓̎̍̂̄̏̄͝͠f̷̢̧̞͉̬̩̯͔̦̥̱̥͇͊͐̍̄͂̾̒̈́̒̔̋̿̈̽͛o̷̺͑̈̄̂̆̊̉̄̓̄̋­̃͘͠o̷̧̧̹̩̲͚͙̼̜̜̿͠l̶̘͈͎̯̫̋̌̏̄̏̇̽̅̒̃̈́͜ͅi̵̡͎̺̹͇͗̽̂͊͜ş̵̮̩̩͙͚̣͈͇̤̞͔͓͐­͑̂̌̄͐̓͌͌̊̓̂̚͘͜ȟ̷̯̗͈̅̆̎͑̌̒͌͑̇̉͘̚ ̷̧͕̠̣̮̠͇̮̯͋̉̐͐̈́̈́͘ḙ̷̭̙̒̈́̂̐̚ṉ̷̩̣̾̀͂͗̊̓̑́͛̌̚̚͠ỏ̴̘͎̫͚͊̀̎̒͆̌̚̚͝u̸̧̞­͉̹̯͎̻̬͐͋̎̚͝͝ͅͅg̴̢̛͇̭̮̺̖͉̖͎̭͌̎̐̊͗͒͆̾̍͂̈ḩ̴̡͓̭̯̲̯̝̭͇͈͔̮̖̄͐̅̇̀̽͂͜͠͝ ̸̨̨͍͉̥͇̝̮̦͔̮̭͖̩̒̃̀̍̉̏̀̚͘̕͝t̵̬͇̰͆̀̈́͊̽͝͠o̸͓͈̬̭̫͑̅̔̌̈́̉̔̈́͛̈͝ ̸̡̮̱͈̤̮͈̬̰̟̹̺͋̉ͅṯ̸̨̨̨̭̩̠͙̳́̀̈́́̋̓̌̚͜͠ͅa̴̧̗̠̲̰͙̦̞͈̪̟͆͗̂̌̌̍̋̔̃̕͘͠k̷­̡̨̙̜͖̲͙͈̝̘̯̅͌͂͗̍̋͌͋̿̋͐̐̓̿̆ę̴͕͌̃̇ ̷̨̢̧͔̪̩̹̘̩̈́̔̋̏͐̐͛͐̇̈̈́̚̚a̵̰̿̈́̍͂̿̏̀̑̌̂̚̕ ̷̻͓̟̱̟͙͓͈̱͈̞̌̎̂͛ͅş̵̛̩̠̜͈̻̭̰̲̾̀͗͋̑͐̑̔̒̈͐͊͘ǐ̶̭͉̜̿͐p̷̲̰̳̀̃͗̋̓̓̍̀̿̕̕͝­,̴̢̡̻͚̩̥̣̋͆͋͂͂͗̆͘͜͝ ̵̢͈͙̰̜̣̼̾̊͒̓̈́̾̄͆͆͝l̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇­̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅl­̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅl­̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅl­̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅl­̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅl­̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅl­̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅl­̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅl­̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅ
­
I poisoned the best part of the drink
the boba that's supposed to be the prize
for after all this happiness and joy
comes death in the bitterest of ways.

I keep this boba a secret
from those around me
but if my cup were to spill
shall the toxins spread through air
eliminating all.

With my own hands shall i ****

ķ̸̢͕̬̼͉̝̺̫̺̔̎̿̉̍͂͑͐͆̿̈́̅͌̕í̶̦̺̟̲̆̚̕l̷͖̟̘̭̜̪͚̆͗͆̌͠ļ̴̫̫̱̹̎̄̎̐­͑̃ ̵̢̧̢͙͔̘̠̘͔͚̭̌̓̍͑͑͋̇̌̋̕ǩ̴͕̹̯̰̀͗́͗̆͛̾̍̕i̵͍̣̪͌́͒̍͋̄̽̾͠l̵̩̮̫̳̞͇̜̰͕̥͇̥­͇̝̅̀̄̏͊̀̀̈́̆͝ͅl̵̟̥̫̗̰͎̜̳̯̜̪̊̅͋̈́̈́̈́͜ͅ ̷̛̜͓̥̹̖̮̝̳̹̹̩̰̋̆̆̍͂̆́̓ͅk̸̢̨̛̥̝̗̥̭͇̟̠̏̉̿͘i̸̢͍̙͇͝l̸͇̂̾̑̊̓̚͝l̷̢̛̛̯̞̫­̼͕̙̺͖̣̱͈̐͊̊̔͊̈́̈͒͛͐̈́ ̶̨̲̼̙̟̪̻͎͚͓͎̹̯͆͗k̴̨̨̡͈̦̗̞̺͚͇̮͍̄̎̀̋̑͆̅̍́̚͝͠killi̶̢̢͎̠̠̘̲̱͇̅̏̋̊͝ͅl̵­̖̬̜͒͛̅ͅl̵̡̡̝̙̹̳͓͙͇̯̗̔̍̀̆̐͌̈́̓̕͜͠͝ ̵̧͛̂͊k̷̛̞͗̈́̅̒̑͘͘i̵̛̲̗̦͔̠͌̿̄̀̇͐̐̏͋̓̏̎l̷͔͎̤̝̭͍̬̠̀̃͆̑̈́͋̃̍͛͘͝͝ḷ̴̡̥̼­̪͒̐̂̎͛̎̋͂̅̈͠ ̸̧̡̢͙͚̟͔̄͂͛̏k̶͈͛̆̑̐́͂̈́̈́̚͘i̷̢͖̜͂̍͆̀͛̈́̓̿̊͒́͘̕͝͝ͅḻ̸̨̖̼̫̝́͗̄̿ĺ̵̛̹̭­̪͕͍͈̭̞̇̃͒͑͝ ̵̗̖͇̅̔͊͋́̈́͝ḵ̴̀͋̒̾̂̑̈́̅̎̐͋̕̚**** them allǐ̸̢̛͗ͅl̶̛̺͚̪̣̇̄̂͛͐͛̅͌̿̉͊̚͝l̵͕͖̫͈͙͉̟̣̇̽͂̓̆̍̈́͜ ̸̛̛͉̜͙͍̂̿̓͑̈́̒̀̀̈͆̆͆͝ǩ̷̩͈̰͉͔̈́̐̀͛̈́̑̓̒i̴̛̮̤̤̼̤͔̼̟͛̏l̴̛̪̜̬̭͈̐͂͒̇̊̌­̅͌̚͠l̴͇͓̱̻͓͔͇͗̆̃̄̀̋̋̾̂̔̃͠ ̶̨̙̖̾́͛̏̃́͗͂̈́͛k̶̦̲͖͉͉̠̟̞̼͕͇͋͌͛̐͜í̵̯̙͇̥̰̱͇̃̓́͗͂̋̆ļ̷̛̹̟̦̫̠̝͈̱̆̇͗̑̃­̕͘l̵͚̯̜̱̥͑͑̍͒̎̀̏͗͛̕̕͜ ̷̨̧̠̠̮̜͙̖̙̭̣̻͎̚k̵̳͙̩͓̞̮͔̪̜͗̄̿ͅḭ̷̜̜̲͍̬̪̟͔̱̹̅̾͗ͅl̴̹͍̩̲̓͑̽͘͝l̸̰̫̞̹͉͉­͍͇̲̠͈͉̾̈ ̴͓̻͚̜̯͙̖͈̔̀̈̕͘k̷̤̫̩̼͎̙̻̣̳̹͌̀̓̉͌́͒̈́̒̏͋͊̒̌́͜í̴̢̙̫̮͓̞̣̽̎̆̊̓̽̾̃̀͊͋l̵­̠̮͖̬͐͛̏̾̔̒͛̃̄̉̇͘͘̚͜l̶̛͓̖͚̟̉̇̂̀̐̐̈́̚͘ ̵̰̜͈̱̦͍͆͊̈́̐͑̎̽̈́̃̎̎̄̿͒͠ḱ̵̨̛̰͚̦̦̟̗̮̻͓̲̩̫̽̓̾̀̈́́̽͛͒̓͛͘͝į̵̰̭̣̮̮̟̘̻̦­̲̺̯̻̾̐͆̀͊̿͘͜l̷̨̨̖̣̜̟̯̳̽ļ̵̢̡̡̳̣̮̙͙͖̩̙̲̖̥̌͑̏̕ ̴̢̡̼̩̜͕̠̠̯͍͇͖̥̳͇̓͊̅̓͋̉̇k̷̛̫͇̰̜̈́͛̃̊̀͗͑į̴̧̢̪͚̩̙͎͓̗̓͆͠l̵̨͚̜̩̜̎̄͂̃̊̄­̉͘̚͝͠l̸̦̽͌̈͌̽̊̈́̑͂̈́̋̒̉̚͝ ̷̙̊̑̚͝k̷̢̧̭̤͍̜̘̣̙̙̬̤̰̉̈́́̀̿̌̊̊̿̂͒̽͘̕i̷͙̰͕̹̦̼̟͕̙̘̯̮̹͂͒ͅl̶̨̨̪̪͈̟̻̣̪­̗̿̌͋̂̀͗̽͝ļ̴̨̘̗̖̱͕̀͒̔̀͆͠ ̴̡̹̻̝͕̪̬͉̬͐͌̋͊͌̇͊̈̈͋̈̈́ķ̴̡̛̦̣̮̗̠͔̪̦̠͉̺̄̿̔̓̊̂̏͆͒̀̚i̷̧̧̙͈̬̰̟̘̯̫̩͉͈͉­̯̿̎l̴̤̳̳͔̻̤̱̀̄̒̍̒͌̃̒͒͜͝l̷̢̹̜͈̹̦̬̝̭͔̙̙̖̯̾̎̐̋̔̄͋͌͠ͅ ̸̗̫͆͆̎̅̀̚k̶̨̰̝͓̺̹͙̙̮̰̘̈̄͊̀̇̊̔̓̎̂̚͝͝͝i̴͇̮̘̒̒͛̑̐̓̍̉̚͝͝them all **** them alll̸̙̺̪͔͒̿̌ļ̶̰̥͍͎̬̞̱͎̳̥̖͔͂̐ͅ ̸̡̢̯̖̞͓̮͕̝͛̉̀̑̑̏̚͝k̴̻̰̗͍͚͙̭̙͙̭͕̇̆͆̔̐͒͒i̶̧̱͖͙̼̤̞̳͈̟͖̞̖̪͗̓̋̅̿̽͌́̍ḻ̷­̡̟̹̦̪̤̘̭͂͝ļ̷̨̙̟̠̩̟̤͛͝ ̸̜͖͖͍̫̤̟̝͈̬̣͛͂̑̐͂͋̾͊͐̋̚͠͠k̴̤̮͇͔̀͂͊̐͗́̓̕͝i̷̡̛̯̰͉̥̘̘̝͉̬͈̥͒̀̌͆͛̿͆͘̚ĺ­̴̠̲̤̯̱̼̝̒͋͛̆̍͗͊̓̋͘̕̕͝l̴̝̲̯͆̈́ ̶̺̾̈́k̴̛̫͈̗̞̺̰͓̙͇̩̤͖̃̓͑̓̆̎̕͠͠i̵̳̮̋͆̚l̷̪̄́͂̋͗̃̑̉̓̀͊͘͝͝l̴͖͚͐̒̽̓̈̕͘͝­ ̷̡͉̦͓͇̪͕͙͒͜͝k̵̢͍̯̗͕̼̗̝̤͕̪̭͙̼̤̈́͑́̈́͝į̴̗̲̰̺͎̠͔̝̹͗͒̇̐͐́́̔̓̃̏l̶̞̜̖͖̙­̪̩͐̽͌̿l̶̼̤̆̀͌̂̽̇̌̃̌̔̽͑̕̚͜͝ ̸̢̧̨̱͔̫̩̙̠͚̙͋̑k̷̡̼̠̪͍̤̱͉̥̩̊̾͘i̵̧͉̙͖̪̤͍͚̲̩̘̘̮͑̑́͗ͅl̴̲̭̮̘̝͇̓͛́̉̑̆̀́­͌̐̌̔͝͠l̵͉͕͇̘̺̫̍̐ ̸̧̼̥͙̯͚͓̠̼͔̞̅k̶̨͚͎̺͉̤̱͎͇̗̠͚͇̔͑͋̈́͂̈́̀̓̿͛̄͘͜i̷̭̝͍͈̠̖̰̘͕̎l̴̞̳̍̑̃͑̔͌­̏͝ļ̷̮̳͙̩̲̭̓̇̄̈́̆́̓͊͝͠ ̷̺̪͌̔̃͗͜k̸̡̧͚̤̔̿͊i̴̧̧̧͇̮̺̜̹̩̱̮̰̍͂͌̈̾͂̉͌͝ͅl̷͕͈̼̭͓̰̑̀̋̓͛͂̓̎̅͠ͅl̴̹̠̭­͕̮̩̠̰͇̠͐̊̐̂̈́̍̆́̚̚̚ͅ ̷̡̛͖͇̗̂̋͂͛̈́k̴̨̢̥̙̭̼̿͒̒̀̒̇͌͛̓̂͜͝͝ͅͅͅi̸̢̨̲̬̲̬̭̗͖̺̒̒̃̊̅̈͆̍̒̓̆̒̋͜l̵̠­̫̟̮̙̤̤̯̈́̎͂̎͌́͂̊̎̈́̊̚ͅl̶̡͕̹̩̍̿̈́̏͜ ̵͖̇́̈́͋̆̄̏̊͐͒̚͝k̷̻̙̙̱̤̮͓̝̯͇̺̐̾ĩ̸̢̧̛͕͈̖̥̬̬̖͎̯̓͊̈́͐͌̾̓̽͒̍̐͜͝l̶̺͐̌̓̍­̑ḻ̸̭̭͈̖͓̋̏̉̓̓ ̶̢̡̬̥̙̞͍̲̯̲̣͖͚̃̑͝**** them all k̷̗͔̪̰̥͍͎̣̫̫̘̀͂̂͛̀͝i̸̳̼͇͕̙̞̝̟̒͛̊l̵̨̖͍̘̣͍͉͈̙̫̩͕̠̄l̴̢͕͓̘̻͈̹̝̹̩̂̎͋̓͒­̓̕ ̶̢̫̥̹̮͖̳͕̼̹̻̜̔̅̕k̴̡̧̝̬̪͉̩̙͖̜͈̭̮̃̆͑̃͆̄͜ͅi̵̧͔̘̝̫̤͈͐̔͑̐̍̇̏̐͛̈́̂̿̑̇̄l­̴̢̛̠̰̟̺͖̒̔̎͗̍͌̀̓̿̑̽̑̍͂͜l̸͚̺̯͎̞͓̙̏͂͊̉̈̇̄̅̏̀̾͛̎̿ ̷̛̛̲̺̻͙̻͖̃͒͊́̿̀̽̀̐̚̕͠͠k̶̢̫͍̭̙̩͚͇̲͓̗͓͔̏̑̔̾̇̌͒̀͒̏̚̚͜͜͠i̴͎̭͉̝̮͇͙̓̉̌͗­͜Kkkkill them alll̸̜̭̭͕͊̔̊̃ļ̷̧͍̰̣͎̼͓̲̬̭̠͉̽͆̂̾̑̾̌̌͂̀̐̕͝͠ ̸̻̬̓̔͂͌̆͛́̏̐̐̾͝k̸̨̰̪̼̮̠̤̝̥̯̄͋͂̀̌́̚i̷̧̨̧̖̠̣̬̽͛̄̽̆͘͠l̵̢̬̰͙͇̱͔̤̙͕̩͙̄­̒̈́̐̒̽ͅͅļ̵̛̼̮͕̩̬̰̲̦̙͎̙͎͔̟͂̽̔͊̈́̿̈́̈́͒́ ̷̡̃͂̐̂͒̔͋͂̄͌k̸͔͕̠̗̪͕͚̃̄͂͆̒͋̈́̏́͒̂̈́̕̕͝**** them alli̴̖͈̳̼͉̞̭̫͉̫͓͓͓̻̒̈́̃̌͘͝ͅl̵̬̖̓̿̀͑̂̌̇̔͘͝͝͠ľ̴̞̱̱͕̲̞̱͉̞ ̶͇͗̃̀̏̈̀͆̒̔̂̅͜͝k̴̡͉̰̗̥͙͎̏͑͛̅̄͛̅̇͜į̷͙̤͕͖͇͎̖͐̃̏̅́̈͝l̷̠̞̲̉͊̈́͆͒l̷̢͉̪­̻͚̪̭̙̩͖̩̲̐̂̑ ̶̗̬̹͕͓͉͚̘̤͙̠͐̅̋̌̄͆̆͘͝k̷̨̡̮̪̟̫̺͙̭̥̊̎͑̐͛͘î̸͉̜̂̒l̵̢͕͎̱̺̟̪̍̓̑̍͊̎̊̂͆̓̊­̒̕͜͝ĺ̵̡̼̼̯̦͕̪̖̦́̌̿̎̾͋͜͠͝ ̵̡̮̳͚͕͕͈̳͓͗̃͌̔̄̓́́̑̾̍͝k̴̨̝̫̦̺̣͍̮͈̲̞̾̃̈́̽́̕̕i̸̲̫̥͔̜̗̋̌́̿̓̅̉̓̂̐͛͋̽͘­͘l̷͎̘̠͖̯̹͓͛̅͂̊͛̉̌̓̈̀̀̋̚̕͠ĺ̶̯̈̏̉̎̊͗̿͐̂̉͛͂ ̶̜͑̓̃̑k̴̢̛̛͉͈̼͖̰̺̘͉̼̤͖̳̖͐̌̓͊͒̐͗͊͆͑̊̚ͅį̸̛͖͉͙̺̘͖͚̺̻̟͚̬̎̒̈́͘͜**** them alll̸̼̆̆̀͌̕l̷͎̹͚̖̯̲̭̳̗͂̓̽́̉̈́̔̿̅͑͠͝ ̸̧̡̰̪̙͉͈̺̭͍̓̎̈́͘͘͝ǩ̷̲̩͙͑̀i̵̪̗͈͉̖̝̬̥̬̻̫͌̈́͋̽̇̔͒͐̈́͒̀͐̓͝ͅl̶͉̠̼̣̙̯̲͚­̦̤̼̣͉̿̐̌̀͂̑̑̇̚̕͝ľ̴̢̦̤̺̪̝̰̯̠̙͋̓̊̒̓̈͘͝ͅ ̸̢̛̛͇͎̠͋͆̋̊̃̇̈́̉͘͠ķ̴̠̲͇̳̘̞̟̪̋͛̋̆̇̆̃ȋ̶̻̼̟̤̭̈̉̄̀͒̎̕ͅͅl̵͔̣̼͈̫͗̑̄̾ĺ̷͖­̫͇̖̐̎̌̉͑̈́̚̕̕ͅ ̷̨̲̲̳̫̦̙̪̥̱͈̾͊́̅͋̽͊̎̐̀̈́̍̚͜͝ͅk̷̳̺̲͚̥͇͍̿̚ȋ̷̡̙̦̞̜̜̼̰͙̝̲́̽͆̀͋̍͝l̸̢͚̜­̫̼͕̝͍̒l̵̢̢̗̬̯̩̯̭̗̣̰̽͂͆͑́̏͠ ̵̻̲̟̰͉̰̯͈̿͌̏͛͌͋̾͒͐̓̚͘͝k̶̡̜̭̰̝̩̭̩̜̿́ï̸̖͉͇͕̳̞̹͖̻̣̰͕̗̀͐͒̋̊̅̈́͋̂̐͐l̴̥­͉̯͔̺̺̲̥͕͈̣̱̳̓̐̈́̽̿l̵͓̺̯̫̗͇͒̾͛̄̈́͗͛͒̄̑̍͜ ̸̱̳͔̱̿̾͋̈́̂͊̊́̆̕k̵̢̛̩̳̙̭̹̫͉͚͚̖͙͊̎̽̇̆̅̊̉̚i̸̬̝̩͑̑̑͆̉͌̀͗͑͝l̵̢̢̼͉̘̿̄̃­̋̌̎͂͐̒̒̈́̚͝͝l̵̢̙̟̤͔̺̤͙̙̞͓̇͛͐͛̉̋͋̚͠͠͠ ̷̠̺̫̰̱͎̺͍̦͉̿̎̄̐͐̈́̌̈́̓͝ͅk̴̙̱̔́̏͒̓̅̈́̕̚͠͝i̴̡̺̬̜̞͎̬̘̒̍̅̈̓̂̈́̒͐͒͆̚͠l­̸̮̝̝͑̀͒̎̌̉͝l̷͓̦̳̼̏͑͋͊̃͠ ̴̰̮̐̓̑́̃̍̉̾̀̑͘k̵͙̓͌̓̊͛̑͒̄͘i̷̧̥̖̲̒̋̂̀͘ļ̴̲̙̫̟̟̳͖͓̈́͛̅̒͒͑͒̂͜l̸̳̦̺̲͎̝­̗̖͌̋̈́͊͜ ̶̫̱̪̣̋̉̃k̵̢̢̛̛̞̲̜̦̮͕͉͆̆͆̅̍͂̊͗̾̇̀i̸͎͍̲͇͕̞̝͑͋̏̍͑͗̏̒̅̈̎͑͝͝ļ̷͙̹͖̠͍̬̝̯­̞͔̞̊̇͗̔͊̆́̽͋͛̏́̈͝͠l̴̘͋̋̌̌̆͊̍̈́͛͗̈̐̀ ̶̤͕̔͌͂̽̇̔̅̃̎̌̀́̑̀͝k̷̡̛̪͉̪̗̞̦̤̼̐͆̈́̋̔̈́̈̀̍͛̊̽̕ì̷̢̞̓͑̑͘l̶̯͇̟̮̥̥̱̯̂̍­͂͂̓̇̂̋̈́ͅl̷̢̖̖͔̠̫̗̗̺̯͙͚̑ ̸̧̞̤̹̐͆̿͆̽̎̋̈́͐̃̈̀͘ͅk̷̨͖̺̋̋͘͝ḯ̶̗̗͔̈́̀̎̚͠͠ͅḻ̷̢̻̽̀̽͆̃̂͐͝ļ̶̨̤̝̖̫̼̅́̂­͑̎̍ ̴̡̫̪̘͖̙̯̲̗͎͙̙͙̟̲̋̏̃̽̔k̶̡͇͍̪͚̤̜̯͌͛̑̐̈̒̅͆͑͊͐͐̚͝ī̵͓̖͚̗̞̹̳̝͕̔̒͛̈́͆͑͂̔­̀̋̚̚͘l̵̢͓̟̭̩̦̥̩̰̘͓̯̱̑͠l̸̙͉̘̙̘̜͖̈ ̴̛͉͚̠̪̿k̸͔͚̠̼̰̐͌͌͒̊̌͊̂̋̿̊̇̕̚i̶̡͍̥̫͕͇̥͖͕̬̽̀̓̓̀̈́̐̂̈́̌̆͆͘ͅl̸̢̨̠̘͍͔̭­͖̠̝̞̈́͛̓͒̈́͌̾̈́́̏̆͒̅l̵̢̗̰̆̀̇̓́̇̀̉ ̶̨͍͇̥̳̜̮͍̻̥̟̜̣͇̀̂̈́̈́̂͛̓͝ǩ̶̡͕̠̤̆̿̈́̇í̵̡̭̪̘̝̞̓͂l̷̤̞̠̦̹̜̦̈́l̸̡̛̦͔͙͈­̞̪̝̐̍̔͌̅̕͠ ̵̹̱̜̰̝͚͖͎̞̲̮̣͛͝ͅk̴̭͕̰̏̄̌i̷͇̟͙̤̠̽̔̀̏̀̐́̚͝͠ļ̵͕̩̩̲͚̫͎̣̹͚̤̺̻̂̌̈́̔̔ḽ̷͙­̫̫͚͎͍̫̈̋̓͛̓̈͐͌̅͆̔̕̕͝ ̴̨̭͉̭͕͓͇̥̟͔̲͍̜̘̣̔̇̆k̶̡̨̤̱̯̮͍̲͓̥̣̩̄̏͊̍̂̈́̇͆͒͊͜͝i̶͖̗͔̞͔͓͐̽̍̏̿̏̀l̸̡̗­̯̺̟̫͈͕̤̮͉̠͎̤̚l̵̨̨̖͇̣͙̪͈͔̖̍̅̄̅̌̏̌́͐̋̑͜ͅ ̸̟̯̮̰̹̯͚̞̦̪̖͎̗̘͙͊k̷̢̢͔̘̠̤̬̐̆͆̄̊̃͂̓̀́̾̈́̑i̴̛̞̤̭͓͎̪̬͓͇̣̝̊͐̋̕͜l̴̨̛̝̘­̪̟̣̰̣̞̼̖̮̗͂̌́́͑͊̃͝ĺ̷̟̞͚̯͇̱̺͖̟͍̹̇̿͆̌̎̄̃͘ ̴̺͎̪̫̼̳̝̘̱͌̀͐̈́͂́͋͜k̸̛̹͖̤͈͍͌͗̑̍̀̌̓́̚͠͝i̷̛̛͕̘̝̪͈̖͖̔͆̆̿̃̂̀̓̈̔̎̕l̵̛̠­̳͔̼̪̾̔̿͐͂͛̌͘̚͠l̷̨̙͍̯̹͉̱̫͐̈́̇͒̉͊͆͂͑ͅ ̶̛͚͎̯̖͑̒̃͒́̚͠k̶̛̛̙̰̦̋͒̃̿̆̿̕i̵̡̢̛͙̯̩̬͐̉̆́̈́͑͌̈͋̔̋l̷̡̢͖͔̳̗̠͍̭͕̼͙̥͚̍­̓́̀̑͊͋̈́̅̇̕͠l̶̨̆̐ ̵̠̥͔̙̣͇̖̪̻̝̇͌̿̃̊̊͠ͅthem all ****

Oh how great this red liquid feels, parting as my hand intercepts it's p̶̧͍͎͓̙̥̻̘͔̗̉́͛̈͌̓̽̐̅̈́͌̌̓͋̄̓̍́̈́̎̎̚͝͝a̸̰͙̣͓̼̪̼̜̳̅t̴̡̡̥͓̩̘̳̣̹̬͉̝̗­̮͚̬̘͔̫͙̩͉̐̀̾͜ͅͅh̵̘͌̀͌̊̑̈͘͝ towards the floor
My fingers swimming in your intestines
gutting you
how your screams of p̸̗̟̯͉̘͚̝̳͓͉̱̮͎͎͓̩̜̦̄́̊̒̽̔͒̀̈́̿͂̓̀̎̎̏̆͆̕a̵͇̱͔̲̭̲̮͓̲̼͓͌̆̆̓̈́̈ì̸̡̢̨­̳̭̝̠̺̟͎͇̪̘͖͕̫͔̼͍̝̀̆̄̌̾̍͊̒͐̔̋͋̐̂̚͜͠n̵͔͓̺̰̤͙̹̓̒̒́̍́̎̍̀̀̊̌̕͝ fill my ear, bringing a smile of unfathomable pleasure to my face,
how this putrid smell fills my lungs as my knife cuts different parts of your body, letting me savor the moments as i switch paces between slow and fast while you lose the energy to scream, letting your pain and emotion out with little grunts and moans
as i rip off your nails one by one, your hidden flesh comes exposed to light for the first time, your pupils shrinking as you realize that your death wont come anytime soon. I grab your hair as my knife rests in the other hand,
i slowly draw it near your eye, and insert. blood splats on the floor as torture creeps through my brain, filling every thought, like spiders multiplying in a corner, spreading to every inch of the walls. Your helpless cries escape the gag which was designed to limit your voice, your helpless attempts of struggling each time i rip away another part of your body, exposing more and more and more, your bones cracking as i increase my pressure to a point where your bones give in and snap, releasing everything built in and letting it go off onto the flesh the suffocates it, twisting and bending your body in ways that make you unrecognizable, ripping off your nose with the kitchen knife i use almost every single day, your vision darkening with each and every swing from my hammer to your stomach, the red liquid staining my eyes, burning its image into my retina, death is so beautiful. Oh death, the way you ****, how death teases by being so close to touch  yet pulls back once you reach for it, how it makes you wait an et̶̨̧͈̄̈́͗̉́͌̿̍͋͗̀̈́́͒̾̈́̆͆͌͐́̾̀͌̚ę̸̡̘̫̰͔̻̗̘͔̩̗̐͌̄͂̈́͋̊͐͛̊͒͆̅̑̄̀͒­͜͠r̵̢͍͓̙̖͓̥̝͙̝̹̺͕͓̬̻͕̾́nity to achieve its grace. I hate you. I will never forgive you. My eyes are filled with those of a killer. I want to bathe in your guts. They shine so brightly as my knife grazes them. You still move and i question why, are you fighting to live after all this time? Are you trying to make me love you? These feelings, so complicated, oh silly you, moving about like a fly caught in his trap. Stab. Let your pain, blood, and torture fill my recipe. Succumb to me. Let the your beautiful pain fill the mouths of others eager for your lovely boba, let the joy of m̷̡͓͚͕̩̪͎̳̪̟͕̝̖̯͖̥̗͎̈́̂̐͂͊͛́͆̀͒͠͠ͅͅͅmȗ̵̧̩̗̬͈̣̭̮̗̠̦̬̫̟̽͒̌͐̐̓͌ṛ̸̢̲̮­͉̫̝̟̜̏̌̉̉͊̐̇͆́̀̎̐͆̎̔̕͠͝ͅd̴̛̛͇̲͈͗͆͛̉̉̋̎̑͋͝e̴̮̝͖͓͕̪̻̩̦̥͔̪͇̖͋̋̏̇͑̈́̂­ŗ̵̨̢̢̢͈̩̻͖͓̣̗͈̪̖͙̜͔̥̥̳͈͇̖͂ͅ ******, the risk and it's adrenaline flow through my veins as I stab and I stab and stab and stab a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌­̅͆́͆̕͜d ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘ and stab and stab a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌­̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘ a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌­̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅand stab and stabņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜and stab and stabḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅand stab and ststab stab stab stabab ņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜stab stab stab stab b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘and stab and stab
a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔­̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘




dont mess with my life
i smile when i can, but dont push me
i try to be nice, but the murderer running through my head still exists
and the only time you will gaze upon him
is when your death arrives

I'm in the current review of
everything right now.
When my lungs have told me enough
already and I taste of foul
consequences that seep into taste buds.

The walls were gushing water,
as they often seemed to do, and
I always lay on my side,
left leg crossed over right.
Nothing irregular.

The tinge, spark, of pain from a
resting avocado, I can feel it in the
tip of my thumb. The right one.
You were supposed to be soft,
and full of the good fats.

I can't look at a cupola without
seeing "SEWN". But I guess that's
just what happens when someone
intercepts your point of view.

[ A young man and woman married under a street lamp during a snowstorm]


             Such wintry presents is incandescence, flakes shooting through magnificent lamp's orange glow, such a beauty contestant is my love spotlighted below,
white wedding lace is her hair that intercepts crystal snow.  I am her groom tall in suit dressed in drifting bank's dark soak.
     Those flakes incandescing, starting west then darting east, finally on her hair are resting, in that orange incandescence, give foot prints no longer lone .
      And night chimes of metal creaking signs, remind of just her and  I, and that is more than fine. For when weather vanes act insane, in that lonely night snow, and my prints are lone, she is near my heart staring up while standing on my toes.

So wonderfully lonely when the streets are dead,
under street lamps glow much magnificent,
Her snow flake lashes night sky has sent,
Our sole footprints in globes lonely presence,
Watching night snow turn incandescent.

There I slouched,
hand barely supporting my head,
gazing wistfully at the sunshine, a midst study of the intercepts of ****** circles and lines.
Her condescending baby voice, wafted through the classroom like a stale stench.
Then you,
yes you,
starting pressing the calculator buttons so hard for one moment I thought you'd break it.
I pressed my hand lightly on yours and you met my gaze for a moment,
so in my supposedly light bulb epiphany,
I asked you for a spare pencil.
Your eyes lit up like my terrible idea,
and trouble was being spelled in your flecks of gold.
So, your hand reached in and very slowly lay
pencil,
after pencil,
until it covered the space between us on the gratified desk.
"Fourteen pencils and you can have them all" you said,
before that patronizing  squint swung in our direction
And the shouting began.

Sometimes it’s just there

That feeling in your chest,
like a dead weight being  dropped onto your lungs;
preventing you from gasping for that breath of fresh air.
That feeling of helplessness,
intercepts your ability to scream at the top of your lungs.

Sometimes it's just there.
I can’t explain what it feels like.
But if I had to try,
I  would say it's agony.
It's torment,
but absolutely remarkable.

Concealed Beauty a veiled smile
Frightened moments of hope, rejecting all
Fleeing from happiness, fear intercedes
Raging rivers of doubt, intercepts commitment

Sleepless nights provided by unmet desires
Hopelessly, emotionally, wracked by emptiness
Strained tears, sobs escape, tormented soul.
Reach for empty spaces, realization explodes.

Eruption of Self pity, self doubt, weep for wholeness
Aimless wandering of the soul, searching all corners of the heart seeking happiness.
Blurred noise, unanswered reflection. Stupor of drunkenness.

Accidental encounter, strange calming voice,
Caution thrown to the wind. Exhilarated moments of elation
Imagination soars, excited moments of distant possibilities
Heart found, secret desires fulfilled, sweet sweet silence.

A lovers embrace, whisper passionate melodies of adoration, an enduring kiss.
A lovers gaze, locked together for eternity, unbreakable emotion.
Pure immeasurable love and friendship, happiness begins
Regurgitated ****** from blackness, born new.

Written by
Edward Green
01/09/07

Our hopes burn like the butts of the cigars we smoke.
You smell sweeter than any whiskey.
The house vanishes brick by brick
But these planks are here to stay
A locomotive howls up at the moon across the field
A harvest moon casting an orange glow
Intercepts our prismatic tears
All is dull and dark
Save our shining faces

The utmost beauty, I ever espied,
a river ******* overtaken by a saltwater tide.

The sun bleached pebbles "Ka-ching"
Climbing down an ocean wall of railroad ties,
I see the ******* from this L-shaped cove,
I do not tarry for my burning soles,
the cooling sand then ankle cold.

My foot feels the soft murky grass,
A crab's tickles across my foot,
then I trip over line of a derelict trap,
I quickly recover after chilling splash,
And search a more clear and sandy path,

The horseshoe crab retreating to waist high deep,
Where forlorn buoys and rowboats rock to sleep,
Like a helmet with many mechanical legs,
She disappears into the darkness with her eggs,
I turn to look back at the cottage I left behind,
Like a cat o' nine-tail the flag whips the sky.

I reach the clean and purest sand,
Of this island not made by man,
My steps bring me up amidst this river,
unlike the coming current that makes me shiver,
the water is in no rush, so a nice warming touch,
I find a hollow and recline as if in a tub,
and watch the seagulls battle the wind above,
The cottages looks so distant fleeting,
The air above shingles distorted from super heating.

The wind intercepts all shouts from shore,
like an osprey swooping down then back to soar,
It is alittle lonely, and beyond the ******* scares me,
I think a jellyfish--
when my foot touches something hairy,
Things cruise by in the current,
Then I start to notice my ******* fading,
I must leave or soon be wading.

Back at the cottage,
With childrens laughing, calling, sand castle making,
Through itchy dune grass and hot sand traipsing,
I look back at the river in full high tide,
Waiting for my island to rise.

I have penned many emotions that bled endlessly
on the page, but blood only flows for so long before
it congeals and then it evaporates and a stain is left
reminding me of a time I once bled.

It was like water to  my mind but water has many
forms and the form that intercepts my mind is one
of solid matter. All are instances now frozen within,
the thought is there static non linear and remote.

My words may die, but my thoughts progress.
I am only human and we bleed less and less.
Fear not for the thaw will come and like a river
my words may not bleed but trickle ever so often.

I've held on so long
that my fingers might break
under the pressure of the weight
you dropped on me
I can't shake this feeling
Like a pencil stuck in the
schoolroom ceiling, just waiting to take
the fall.

I've cried out so much
my throat might crush
I can't take the tingle
that intercepts my veins
like the warnings you gave me
straight to my brain.

I don't mind it
Shovel up another spoon full
lets get through with it
I like the taste of medicine
any
way.

there is a place where the digitized vinyl gospel funk
intercepts the rumble of passing cars
and creates the most electrifying revitalization
sharper even than the razor blade air
running darting
from underneath far-off frosted leaves
on starch high branches
scraping my fingers and ankles
with ceaseless sounds that show
the bristled boundless scuplted green plane
how to dance

soon the sun loses its hold on tranquility
and leaps from the halos
of buildings and coloratura crowns of trees
painting the bustling scene with an overlay
of glossy jubiliation

I'll trade this night's sleep for daydreams
And lay with all the lights on to keep me safe, terrified of
daydreaming. The earth intercepts contact with the sun. I'm dead like the apollo astronauts were dead when they slept
when they were behind the moon and lost radio contact
and if they didn't sleep they probably daydreamed
I'll daydream with the moon, she's much nicer to me
More lenient and a listener, not a talker
With a pillow over my head
daydream about terrifying things
like people's eyes
like the way I shuffle and move in real life
in the giant elongated body
with the hair and glasses that don't belong to me
I can do certain things deadpan
But I will stand in a party and tremble
then I go to the bathroom and
daydream of me sleeping forever

I:

Modern parlance,
It says disease; it says illness,
I’ve a darkness that swallows up the sugar birds and intercepts the light bouncing up from the epoxy,

and rocketing towards a god my mother knew.

II:

I've done so much,
To great and tractable youth,
That hammer created nothing vestigial and lionlike, no, it simply left depressions on waxen suburban doors,

That you once wildly rushed to open.

III:

When I remember,
You wrapped around the backstay in an empty field -
Trying to reach forward and knock the Camel light that I had lit to keep myself from speaking,

I light another.

I'm chasing the divine moon
In its most full state
There in the eagle's claw
Rests my house of cards
The gods hear me but do they listen?
Either I rain my blood on this war for Ares
Or Gaia opens to receive me

I might fall to a ravine
Broken bones and dead encounters comfort me
I might devour the dark pill
That intercepts my self-proclaimed hero

But I long to talk to her
To my muse who strives on the sharpest points
Like the bone that hangs in Cerberus' neck
She must want to bury me in her
Or take hold of my soul
Bless it to the god and her lady
Who dwell near the enchanted river

In this odyssey with nothing on the other end, perhaps
I'd find her whispering me to take the oars
Move along
For as my Tritogeneia
She'll give way to my long awaited Ithaca
Where I'll hold the pen
As she weaves the stories
Above the mortals
Above the gods
Hidden and alive
Since time immemorial

Is love truly in the air?
If so, then why the air so reluctant to deliver my love kisses blown to my special half in time?
Cos I've been waiting for the reply in vain for days,
Is air some kind of a love fraudster that intercepts love and gives to another person instead?
No wonder the air has so much love in it as the love is never delivered to the right person for millenniums.
Perhaps it's time to let air go and reach out yourself to the one you love and say that you love them; and give the love so it requires.

A song puts me asleep
A poem intercepts my soul

Far and away in the leap of years,
A world of boon or a kingdom of fears !
'T'echnology, simulated-reality , braindeaths, AI,
Void of 'H'umanism, a head for an eye !

Preference to nation, ignorance to natives,
Envisaging transhumanism, transducing sedatives,
Madness advances, values are lost,
Just like sunshine in the stretch of frost !

Ethics loose importance in a fanatic's hand,
Just like water in enormities of sand !
Leaders become fanatic for nation's advance,
Democracy gets stomped in autocracy's dance !

Government intercepts the internet searches,
Encages the bird on freedom's perches,
Restricts the voices against the king,
If dares to question, he cuts her wings !

Humanism protectors narrow ad infinitum,
Their end is necessary for the government's rhythm !
They are jailed and tortured for several years,
The generations ahead are checked in fear.

Media will slave the monarch in reign,
Opinions get locked in falsism's chain.
'Created reality' and 'media simulation',
Virtually happy will be tomorrow's nation.

Hunger of supremacy, verge of war,
Verge of extinction, no 'and, 'but', 'or' !
War begins and innocents die,
Heads are taken in return of an eye.

Far and away in the leap of years,
We will be born in a kingdom of fears,
No one will hear our sorrow and cries,
Void of humanism, heads for eyes !

Keeping still my heartbeat
Just to stay alive
I'm sorry that I lied
I'm sorry that I died
Before you happened by
My demons lay at night
Before you came along
I wouldn't even try
I wouldn't even try

Take me down to the breaking point
Where I soften and forget
All about disappointing you
Or what could be misconstrued
Disestablished, or casually deflected

For still I watch helplessly
As camoflauge intercepts my language
I can hide and be strange
Or pleasant and fake
But it doesn't make us any less estranged
Yet when I'm pretending
There's no mending my mistakes
Because they break us
Like a fault line when the earth quakes

When the message you're sending
Is much too diplomatic
I need to feel the pressure rising
I need a triumph of humanity
Static rolling through my fingers
Charging my frozen feet as I linger
On those last choice words of yours
Retorting lightning fire out of my mouth
My ears still ringing
From the weight of their impact

Keeping still my heartbeat
Just to feel alive
I'm sorry if I lied
I'm sorry that I died
Before you happened by
My demons lay at night
Before you came along
I wouldn't even try
I wouldn't even try

I can be so condescending
Like my response to your questions
Are forever pending
Another moment in time
But I can't pretend
Like I'm some mysterious riddle
I try to be clear and keep things civil
I try to disappear
Only with me in the middle
My broken heart is simple
Which makes me a criminal

It's never enough
I'm sorry that's too much
Stealing my serene
Leaving me unclean
And never free
Deceit ultimately leaving me
To my heart's lonesome conceit

Keeping still my heartbeat
Just to stay alive
I'm sorry that I lied
I'm sorry if I died
Before you happened by
My demons lay at night
Before you came along
I wouldn't even try
I wouldn't even try

Emulsify​ my fragments with yours
We become puree
Our mixture is pliable and capable of smoothing any blemish

A false sense of durability, like layers of plaster over diminishing foundations

A stern wind sends us to chattering and reduces us to shards

An upside-down jigsaw with so many pieces who's interlocking combinations are infinite and impossible

We beset upon this futile quest with reckless abandoned
Punitive passions emblaze our cornea and deafen our cochlea

These inflictions only intensify our other​ detection receptors
Emboldening our synapses with astroglia most hearty and foolish

In the face of self-imposed adversities; the chortling consumes us
Mole hills spur and contort; vertically and violently
Titanic crags obstructing our path and encumbering our better natures
Yet the giggling continues

Brave men will face death without question, but only those who have tasted oblivion jest at it's expense
When you feast on everything and nothing, imagination and fear are savorless against your palate

Sordid sentinels
Mechanisms, blueprinted in hedonism and swill
Completely ****** by design

We are the crusty plaque in the corners of each others lips
The coke-like residue that accumulates from the burning depletion of our crude resolve

Exhaustion smogs our atmosphere and silts your dermis
The granulation makes you coarse and curt
You find friction in all things
There is no refuge for relief
Even afloat amongst the stellar ylem, the invasive abrasion intercepts your drift

Nothing is sacred!
Nothing is truly yours!

Your inter-most thoughts scream from the windows of their cells

You have been divulged and further more, made completely bare
A sort of ****** where opinions can be made on the hue of your skeletal system
Stark and helpless; sprawled wide
Revealing every tiny nook of your crevices, giving breath and larynx to your insecurities

A vivisection

The young men and women gather around the respiring corpse
Every deffect will oust it's cause
A foreign recollection of your story
Quivering and flinching under the pressure of a razor thin plane

Blankly, they stare like bipedal bovine
Sweetness and sorrow is wasted on them
They only seek silence for the deft and ******* for the blind

Now! both have been provided!

Polis intercepts
the palace, grieving on the
body of an old horse.

You don't appear of
this world, with your invisible
wings of majenta flames.

Listen now soundlessly
I drink hawthorn daily for the
sake of unborn poems.

What we do in the bushes
just have a look, if you are passing by
we deny everything you think

we kindle a blazing fire
foot by foot, hand by hand
what the spinner indicates

one step on my blue pants
one hand on the yellow sand
the delay is exciting

like the first time, now the other
hand on the green grass
one leg on the red bag

until I fall over and his skin
intercepts the ***** biting flies
for me, just look

I disappear in his fire
I melt, I singe, I tremble
I'm the bride again

parallel line?
no, we were always the perpendicular line,
two line that intercepts each other,
a paradoxical line that makes no sense of both,
but yet still together in all idleness,
just like us;
we intercept with each other’s life,
existing along the interception,
but; at the wrong time,
and at the wrong axis where you and i,
now absolutely detest each other,
but still we’ll be together,
living against the interception,
because we will always be;
a perpendicular line.

you learn
that even though you can be anything you want
you will be limited by your resources

you learn in your life
the value of paths
for the right price
you can skip ahead

the right price
can place you
instantly in the pursuit of what you've always wanted
if you can afford it.

and it's worth it, sometimes- to wait.
but with every day
chicago calls to me
and reality intercepts the message.

because nothing comes without a price
not even your dreams

Seventy per cent
Of the earth is love
All there is
Is all there ever was.
The love that falls on us
Once fell on the dinosaurs.
Love precipitates
Intercepts
Infiltrates
And percolates.
Yours evaporated.