I could just **** as I masochistically type your name into the search bar at the top of the page.  
I want to erase you from my memory,
but my browser catches your cookies.
I don't even know what those cookies are.
the cookies from the jar?
the cookies from my mind?
the cookies from my computer...
the cookies you ate that one time.
Oreos.
Those were your favorite.
Who the **** brought up cookies?
I could just **** as I masochistically type your name into the search bar at the top of the page.

maybe the reason why I dislike Batman
and love the X-Men
is because Batman, gifted with money and power, chose his struggle
the X-Men were forced- they had mutanthood shoved upon them
and had to be crucifed as society pushed them away
hiding in fear and hatred of what they must face
the X-Men learn to adapt, they take what they have
and choose to be the better man, or the worse man,
but they take the fight that was given them
and the freakery that they were born with,
and they adapt.
Batman, however, was born normally,
did not have to run or hide, for he was privileged,
and he walked, walked straight into freakery
he took the burden others were throttled with
and laid it upon his own shoulders, crying 'woe is me'
whilst he went about the noble task of hero-dom
he made himself a fancy suit- he had been given
normalcy and he invented freakery in order to claim sacrifice
he did not need to give himself- he was an ordinary man
that laid down his life.
The reason why that bothers me so much
is that ordinary men do not need to lay down their lives
they are not called to that future
it is not in their cards
he claimed his heroic deeds and choose to throw himself into the
furnace flames- while others suffered unwillingly
he chose it
he took their pain and made it less
'see, I can do it! anyone can do it!'
what makes the X-Men special is that
their mutation isn't 'deal with pain of superheroism'
it's some other power, but they have to learn how to be ostracized
not anyone can do that- they had to
their survival depended on it
Batman walked into the struggle of their lives
and declared himself a hero
though, for some, the declaration
was not in their words or actions, it was written
into their DNA, it was marked in their skin
by the brands of their oppressors, it
was pounded into every heartbeat shocked with electricity
they fought and hid their heroism their whole lives
for they knew- it was not something to love,
it was something to suffer with-
and Batman took that, he took the heroism
and he projected it across the night sky,
declaring, "I am Batman",
and it is something he can escape from,
he can walk away, he can walk away, he can walk away,
and yes, he chooses not to,
but what he does is steal from those who cannot walk away
his heroism takes the nails in the hands of mutants and orphans
and masochistically drives them into his own palms
crying whilst doing it.
rather than being forced to adapt and look normal,
he puts on a suit and prances through the night dramatically
he takes everything sufferable about being a hero
and tosses it out the window-
he takes everything noble about being a hero
and growls it in a dramatic voice, posing, in his fancy suit,
when he could be safe at home. why would you choose this
why would anyone choose this
be thankful for your ability to be safe,
that is the real superpower- the ability
to be normal, to have a home to go back to, to
have a normal purpose and a normal life,
and Batman is completely, utterly, ungrateful-
he wishes there were more,
while those born with 'gifts' would be satisfied with even less.

There's a way in which I break for beauties like you. It's a performance piece, not of the egoistic sort, but rather a birthed love-child of servility and altruism. Here's my recipe, if you ever wanted to scrutinise my path to death.

First, i stare. And marvel in awe at the carved beauty of you and wonder how many cities you've inspired.

Second is initiation. A delicate dance to either be executed from a carnal desire or a romantic want. I choose one or another, seldom do I pick both; tho they end the same way.  

Third is the burning period. I will saturate myself with unwarranted loyalty at this point. I morph to their warmth and this is where it gets sick.        

Fourth: obsession. If you look into my eyes you will see a longing to drown and to go back to the ocean that is you. It's potent enough to drive me insane. Consuming.

Fifth, i surrender. I'd ask you to take off that fire. I want you to still exist but to go burn somewhere else. To be a forest-fire that inspires rather than to maim me insolently.

Sixth is penance dressed masochistically. I torture myself for reasons he wouldn't understand or is justified, but I somehow think it's salubrious.

Seventh concerns with the cycle of death. I die for you, over and over again. I choose to do this.

Eighth is where my pain becomes stagnant and transition into ghosts with names.

Ninth better itself to be the point of moving on and building graves on reverence for even having a taste of perfection.

Tenth, I repeat this whole process.

I’m addicted to pain
Seems my epiphanius moment
Came a little late in the game
Just the same
What have I to gain
masochistically maintaining
Perpetual pain
Let’s see
I shut out out out everyone
Comforting like rain
Alone with my pain
Only I remain
Wrapped in the insane
Or is it just colorful choosing
Sorrowful musing so amusing
Drowning in pity
So pithy
Doesn’t do it justice
Poor, poor pitiful me
It’s plain to see
Nobody likes me
So I
Cry, cry, cry
Why
I remembered last night
The reason why
You’re going to die
The reason why
Is because
Crying said I with a sigh
always got me what I wanted
what a surprise
Guess, you guessed that
I said a little flat
So I continue to cry
And wonder why
Why isn’t this ******* working
Always worked in the past
And it was such a blast
What a shame
I’m such a crybaby
This is so personal
I think I’ll reversanal
Sounds like a pill
I’ll have two or three
Between you and me
If you know what I mean
My transparency’s my screen
Once I’ve said it
I can forget it
Put it down on paper
And it disappears
Inhaled vapor
Vapor paper
So, if you saw it
Or read it
I’ve already forgotten it
close to the cutting-edge
stretched out on a pledge
allegiance to who be
doobie, doobie do be
I’ll never fall over
That edge that I spoke of
Just a thought that I thought of
I’m no more attached to it
Than I’m attached to you
I know you believe me
Because only you see me
Through all my disguises
My mental gymnastics
Exercises
Only you see me
The lies and the *******
If you want to believe it
Go right ahead
You’ve ignored the warning signs
The tracks converged
And there’s danger up ahead
Only if you believe it
I saw the ending and I saw the beginning
Still can’t tell if I’m losing or winning.
I’m stuck, stuck, stuck
Seems only right that I repeat it
Since you can’t be stuck
If you don’t repeat it

It’s only a game if you think it is

Wishing something extreme
Before I scream
I need a push.
Who the **** am I talking to
Because nobody’s listening
But that doesn’t deter me
I see you before me
You know who you are
Anyone I want you to be
Doesn’t matter if you’re real
Only matters how I feel
You can’t stop me from loving you
Even if you don’t love me
I’ve been so alone
I rather like it like that
No mundane chitchat
******* will **** you
So if that’s what you’re offering
Better stay away
But god
I pray
May that day
Never come
And this is my prayer
That you’re real
Because until then
I can’t feel
Amen.

Music always was an escape for me,
Until you came and went,
And stole it all from me

Tegan and Sara, blink-182
Seether, Jimmy Eat World
and Aerosmith too

Every song was a dagger,
That I masochistically plunged,
Until I was drained, haggard

I have my songs back,
But you've stained them,
Forever marked black

When I am in my place
and the world is quiet
I know the body flows
like Earthy warriors
wrapping 1, 2, 3 on the window of God.

She sits there, elusive,
masochistically questioning
the chemistry of all that Is:
a train-wreck consisting
of a rabid mouse
in slow-motion quicksand.

She knows that wisdom is her keeper.
She is sane and soft like water.
She loves unconditionally,
squirming delicately back to the top.
She's quick like honey
and soft like glue.

Addicted to darkness
like millennials and 90s nostalgia.
Undeniable comfort found in misery.
Leads me to drive the sulking deeper; enhanced pity.
Consumed by temptation,
vivid thoughts and shallow promises.

The predictability of my self destruction.

Euphoric memories of crimson scars,
that flirted with inevitability.
Slick and blurred is the line between thoughts and actions.
I'm walking a tightrope; history breathing down my neck.
I sadistically want to lose my footing,
and masochistically suffer the consequences.

more than a few shattered bulbs
for the muse with the bloodied face
and broken nose.

at the end of the rope
i am merry, masochistically, asking him
"spare an original thought?"

and he can
but as soon as he agrees to let me use it
it evaporates

so i go back to punching holes through the drawing board.

When does it end?
It is all self-inflicted;
The pain I feel, the troubles I see;
I don’t want to wake up;
Afraid of what I might do;
Afraid of what I might think;
Escape is not an option;
Just alternative routes to the inevitable darkness;

I am alone in this world;
Fleeting glimpses of beauty, hope and life;
Seen through the glasses of hatred and disbelief;
It’s all self-inflicted;
This guilt and grief;
If I had the power to rid myself of it, would I?
My melancholy is my confidant, my best friend;
Comforts me when I awake, when I rest my head;
When I see happy people oblivious to the inevitable passing;
When I listen to a beautiful quartet;
When I read TS. Eliot;
There is no escape;
There is no light at the end of the tunnel;
There is no solitary truth;
There is no way, and there is no life;
Let death encompass me, and fill me with nothingness;
For surely, it is the least I deserve.
And masochistically have always wanted.

Many would call me depressed;
I cannot disagree with them, nor do I want to;
I just want them to let me go;
Realize that I have let myself slip from my control;
They say gods do not make mistakes;
I cannot disagree with them, nor do I want to;
I want to be alone loving is too painful;
Yet I crave the love of god;
How jagged are my thoughts?
They say love is beautiful;
I cannot disagree with them, nor do I want to;
For I have never experienced the butterflies;
I have never experienced the smiling eyes;
My melancholy is my wife;
And my only love, in this life.

/enlgish: a playground... mind you... who wouldn't want to see so much more of boris brejcha sampling old disney movies? the ori-, the original thought... ah! when does the mea culpa mantra elevate itself from succumbing to a solipsism? mea culpa? i thought that was autistic, solipsistic *******... kicking the can down the road sort of, *******... ever wonder why the original disney cartoons were so, macabre? apparently in england it's all ******* squiggly clean... king Xerxes started to whip the Aegean Sea (again): Helen! come back! come back! i never liked the credo, nor the mea culpa mantra... it appeared, that no one existed, who could be blamed, and i was bound to resort to, blaming myself, masochistically... enter logic: only i exist, no one else exists! that's what the mea culpa mantra equated itself to... early black & white Disney... cutting edge... the guillotine cartoons... hello! autistic christian world! mea culpa my ***... the ******* donkey could vouch: and i speeded up, because the holy prophet whipped me into a gallop! mea culpa... mea culpa... my own fault... ergo, no one else exists!

this will have to be the funniest petition
ever...
    for one, it's impossible,
but secondary to that impossible
is the reaction to the blatant introduction
of "hieroglyphics" into
a modern language...
      that's ******* troubling,
    ancient egypt is staging a resugrence
within english, among other languages...
i can't let that happen...
   what with emoticons
     acronyms and emoji whatever
the ******* want to call them?
             that's hieroglyphic spreschen,
hot air balloons, zombie heads,
   voids and more voids, inside one giant
void of: the black hole explains everything...
yeah! it does... ever play the PS1 tomb raider?
ever become fascinated about
those two dimensional ferns and bushes
in a three dimensional space?
            rotating like a tasmanian devil?
that's a black hole...
            a two dimensional object in a three
dimensional space...
     who says i'm wrong? who says i'm right?
you have empirical proof to say i'm wrong?
anyway, this will be almost impossible,
fair game for introducing the german
   diacritical distinction into english,
the es-und-zed (ß), when there's ambiguity
concerning the spelling of (variance)
  systematisation     vs.          systematize
hey presto!                
                                       ß,
    zaire                                               sire.
now that's the easy part, the difficult bit?
  no one spotted the lack of diacritical necessity
with regards to the letter R.
                 none!
you can have the squiggly on the N in spanish
as in a tilde: Ñ....
                    invoking a juggling act of
                          ι + . . . = ñ        (j)
                    **** me, a clown juggling...
but exposing a trill on the R, when a language
has devolved from applying it,
other than harking phlegm while smoking
in paris, or making vampire movies?
  the tilde isn't even near the trill representation...
i had to go to russia to think something
up, to fill the vacuum... w'eh hey! found it!
      яobot,
                 yes yes, i know, the russians
state я as ya... whatever...
      to me, the lack of diacritical application
to the R has this solution...
      it's not an R with dentistry's anaesthetic
so you slobber... it's harsh, poignant,
self-evident... let's call this:
     reinventing the wheel, well, it's not
so much rolling, as rattle-snake against
the palatine raphe...
                 pneumatic-drill of a letter...
a complete drum-kit...
   but since there was no diacritical markings
with either liberal (theoretical)
   or orthodox (applicable) usage:
   no, i will not learn the silly linguistic
alphabet...
                 all the americans did was
insert god's right hand into the matter...
    a... wait for this...     a                        H...
that's all they did!
         my my, what a ******* improvement
from /ˈpɑːdən/  to [pahr-dn],
  if this could be art,
   i'd call one: cubism,
                     and the other post-cubism...

but english is the current version
of the wild west...
      diacritical markers can come in...
"reign" from above,
   and sieve from down below...
it's a barren land,
compared to the already existing
european languages...
            e.g.?
                         łąka - field
woe-k'ah...
but that's a primitive phonetic
association,
given the original canvas of
the used tongue,
used only two diacritical markers...
hovering, like u.f.o.s
above            ι        and        ȷ....
     you want the dead hydra,
don't you?
        why not... embark upon
the aesthetic of...
   citing:             ȷump!
                rather than jump...
or...                        ιdea!
                      ­         rather than idea?
all ιt takes ιs allowιng the people
to guιllotιne two heads, no?
          look! hey presto!
                an alιgnment!
   because why wouldn't you?
there's no caron above an S...
            to hide an H... in šeep...
          there's no caron above a C
to also hide an H... in čatter...
so... why bother with the poιntless
     twιn "halo" hoverιng above
            ιdea and ȷustιfιed resonance?
two dots...
                   .                     .
                   ι                     ȷ
                       you don't need them!
curves rather than curses:
     look at that!
                                                    ȷ
     ­                                            ι
almost makes a... U! yew yew?
                    no... upsιlon: up-sιgh-alone...

hell, people wanted a hyper-"ιnflated"
lιterate world, "order"...
      graffιtι dιdn't do ιt for me...
nor dιd the meme culture...
                       ιt was only a two headed
hydra to begιn wιth...
                              hardly a
   ghídorah (well yeah, sιnce the H
ιs sιlent, "hιdden", but ιn plaιn sιght...
there has to be an acute attaché to the ιota,
and yes, that H at the end?
ιt's a vowel-catcher... equιvalent of a,
sιgh)...
                                 you try intruducing
diacritical marks into english,
things become, "sketchy"...
  e.g. when = łen...
                            woman = łuman...
              the tetragrammaton ȷust
keeps probιng...
          hell... let's go as far as:
sz  (ш)                     szcz (щ)
   sh  (ш)                shch (щ)

e.g.?
                     щэкa - a dog, barks...
    щыптa - pinch - of... сoли
                                                    (salt)..­.

        шэпт ( szept /                whisper)...

in all honesty?
   english is the ugliest language in known
history, when diacritical markers
are applied,
and the language is translated from
a pedagogical convention of spelling,
its rubric...
   of: the eyes see what the ears
will hear, but cannot converse with...

introducing a diacritical critique
to the english language?
            it's ugly... it's like frankenstein's
monster actually found himself
a girlfriend after all...
   i haven't heard of the phenomenon
of dyslexia outside of the english
language,
perhaps i might have found it in fwench...
i doubt i would find it as
"pop" in deutsche...
    given... the saxons were behind...
keeping chemical names
in strict accordance to the usual:
complex compound noun structure
of modern german...

eh... norman davies, the historian,
could have claimed poland
was god's "playground"...
    to me?
                the english language is
a "playground" worthily ripe,
                                      for, plucking.

i live in palaces built by your other lovers
ramshackle shacks made garish by your desire
we sleep in beds made by ghosts under sheets.
if i close my eyes,
i can pretend as well as you
that the darkness is empty,
that we are not being haunted.

i sit on your chest and
dig between your ribs,
a paralysis demon with trembling hands
malpracticing on your heart,
tiny fingers prying at
tiny doors,
masochistically longing
yearning
for proof
that i always come last,
that love only exists in your past.

some nights are easy, i see all of the signs
that show me what I don’t have, I am sure to find
but some nights are melancholic
hyper focused on relations forged to be platonic,
and it’s ironic.
im ironic.
you sold me the story and I bought it.
I thought I fought this.
but when the signs lead back to you,
what am I supposed to do?
and now I worry my messages won’t even come through.
yeah it’s ironic,
i can’t stop it.
no matter how hard I try to block it.
it follows me from guy to guy, the demons i run from i always find,
but im fine,
it’s fine.
really I don’t even mind.
we can just talk from time to time.
you can think im crazy because
i can’t communicate right.
but I try.
i swear i try.
a symbiotic semi ****** far too nonchalant nightmare on my phone,
dripped in silver linings i pickaxe out of stone to subdue the fear of being alone.
and you know.
don’t you know?
and you give me nothing but just enough so I don’t go
but every word you say is thickly coated in your ego

it’s a game im always losing,
and a choice that you’re not choosing,
the same flower that was blooming
is now rotten petals from my assuming

its ironic.
i swore it was platonic.
but this ache is catatonic
the way i crave you is chronic
how can the two be synchronic?
i carry love like it’s astronomic
i never said it, but i thought it
maybe im the one who’s toxic

i count on you to disappear,
you never let me down.
i wish you’d just tell me,
you’ll always come back around.
how sad does that sound?
the hidden meanings ive found?
you painted me red and wondered why i looked like a clown.
i just laugh. im the joke.
i don’t get it so i smoke.
you are like a door stopper that’s always in my way.
i can never slam the door closed so i have to sit with my rage.
and my nostalgia is milk that’s soured with age.
a nightmare i masochistically recreate,
and then complain that I can’t escape
so I find new malignancy that I can blame.
to match a new frequency I can alternate,
a virus that consumes all of my drive space,
baby blue flowers in an empty landscape

I said you can’t hurt me,
but you knew I couldn’t
stop it.
i found the vulture,
inside of the ostrich.
and you found the victim
inside of the goddess.
i can’t help
but find that ironic.