AbstractReceive my heartless gestureEmotions within beginning to festerKnow in that you had not been a pesterNot now, nor throughout the duration of this mesterEach of you...forgotten as a day of yester...Vehement towards my presence in fear of desolationI am...flattered, though am unable to offer consolationVanishing henceforth, widowed to a world of isolation
Dear Jack FrostDear Jack Frost,Why is it so fucking cold?To me, winter you have not sold-50 degrees is not a trendNor is it something one recommendsYet time and time againYou creep with the wind with rules to bend-This is beginning to grow oldRescind your chills and quit being boldBefore I shove my foot between your ass foldsLove,Sunshine Gold
The World Knows Naught of Love..."Those in which demand truth and honesty often harbor their own unfathomable secrets, reconciling their deception through means of preaching for one to exercise integrity unto their fellow man. How naive is it to bear the delusion there lies an establishment of absolute honesty unto one another?"-Nirvana/DraavonLove Without the Self by Faro:The world knows naught of love...Beyond cage traditions with locked dovesPapyrus in hand and ankle chainsA bounty for which one is to claimOh the world knows naught of loveRestricting all to one and onlyDeclaring that it must commence in holyCustoms of old guiding livesWords of a text granting wivesWhile those who turn come to seeUnusual bonds branded heresyBut if you love it set it freeOnly to become bound to a doomed matrimonyOh the world knows naught of love...
AbstractAt times...There lies aught amissAs I remain within a wavering abyssPondering, pondering, thoughts rigor mortis...Unable to cast aside or dismissAbsence of truth within a remissIgnorance wherein there lies no blissUnknowing, uncertain of that or thisOf you and I...a bond in I which truly missConsanguinei...aeque de tenebris...
AbstractHave you ever...Poured your heart into verbsEmotion within every wordOnly to find that all the many seeIs the thunder within the stormOf relatable norms
Here I lieHere I lieShedding these tearsAlone to sighWhy, oh whyMust I feel this urge to cryAn overwhelming defeatI cannot denyHere upon this earthOr beyond the heavens and skiesStriving and striving to pryMemory which continues to defyMocking me in tears so drySwelling within these bleeding eyesI fear it is but only awryHope in that it is merely shyVanishing as I draw ever nighFleeing the scope of my third eyeNo matter the focus or how highI ascend, for it passes me byUnwilling, unwilling to complyTo allow me a moment and supplyMore than enough to satisfyEven should it ever implyWithin my revelations I may relyAnd peacefully await the days that underlieFor when the universe itself should applyTowards my moment of end, a death wherebyI may prove unable to offer goodbyeNevertheless, even in that I may dieAn existence beyond...this world? Aye...I reside here in myPurpose within this life, therebyI shall tryFor you...and I...
For those who are teasedPity thosewho throw knivesat your back,for you'vedevelopedsteel armor,and they're leftwith porcelain skin,and broken knives.
he saved me, but he killed me._i. first light- i met you in a crimson forest. it was a rose garden summer, and out of a black mercedes you walked out, your five year old eyes greener thansunlit saplingsyou reached up to pluck a rose from its stem, and offered it to me."what's your name?"daddy told me that i couldn't tell strangers my real name.I looked at the rose in my hand."Rose."you smiled, you were a seastorm of now long-gone innocence.i didn't understand but I knew.ii. i forgot about you for 1562 days, 11 hours, and 22 minutes,you shoutedmy name, but i didn't recognize youuntil i saw your eyes.iii. my father fell and didn't stand back up again.i screamed, and you carried me home.iv. i didn't talk for a week. i stared at the gray of the sky. it was the color of my father's eyes.you sat next to me in the pouring rain,your war
Ugly Scars“Why do you cut, dear?”“Doesn’t it hurt?”Of course it does –It hurts more than I’m worth“Why do you cut, dear?”“Aren’t you ashamed?”Of course I’m embarrassed,But I’m used to the blame.“Why do you cut, dear?”“Why don’t you stop?”Can you stop a dead bodyFrom starting to rot?Because, darling, you see,I’m not even here.I’m only a corpseWith no hope, and no fear.“Why do you cut dear?”Well, don’t you see?There’s a pain insideSo deep within meAnd it’s coming to the surfaceBut no one understandsSo I put that painInside my hands.And I lay it outFor all to seeOn wrists so redAnd forearms that bleed.“Why do you cut, dear?”“It’s ugly, you know.”Ha.“ugly” is exactlyWhat this is meantTo show.
Anxiety attackAs the attack begins,I feel myself slipping away again.And I question things that are better left unsaid.And contemplate if I am better off dead.My anxiety is killing me,I feel my hands shaking.And I am sobbing.And am I dying?I am just trying,To get a grip.But I feel my reality slip through my finger tips.Nothing is real,Except every bit of pain my mind forces me to feel.Every memory that I had shoved away.Is now racing around my brain.It's driving me insane.And my limbs turn to jello.Every time my head hits the pillow,Before I go to bed.I start to panic and I am wide awake instead.More thoughts are swarming around like a hurricane.Please,Make it stop!And just like that,The attack is gone.
Self-Harm Isn't a HandbagPick at the scabs of the ghosts of scarsOn the insides of my wrists,White hot pain memories shoot up my veinsAnd the tear vapour creates mistsIn the lenses of my glasses.My world narrows down to thoseWhite stitch marks that keep thePatchwork of my forearms and thighsTogether,Keeping the dark ugly hurtOn the insidesForever.How could I have done this to myself?Could I blame you?And him?And her too?No.I’m a big girl now,And the blame rests on my wrists,That flicked the bladeAnd sprayed the blood,And the mind that forbadeMe to ask for help.I’ve said it beforeAnd I’ll say it again;It isn’t beautifulTo put yourself through such pain.When your head is buzzingFrom the hit of the highOf a new cut on your thigh,Or your mind is lost in a mistOf ecstasy from a new sliceOn your wristAnd you’re dependent on itA junkie needing a hit,It isn’t pretty or cute or special.No amount of kissesWill undo the cutsOr absorb the scars.No
BipolarThere's that moment when I wake up in the morning,And without a warning.I feel myself plunge into the ocean.As my thoughts drown me,Like anchors tied to my ankles.And I feel the water all around me.I am being consumed by the sea,Of me.My mind is my own worst enemy.There's that moment when I wake up in the morning,And I get that feeling.In my chest,But it's not pain.I feel like I am actually sane.Or maybe a little more than that,I feel creativity and happiness,And just plain joy.I can't describe this emotion,I just know that I actually feel alive.Maybe even more than that.And I can laugh and I am okay.But then there is the next day.And the next,Until it all goes away.And then I am neutral.I am not manic.I am not depressed.I am not anything.I feel bored, irritated.I don't know what I am.Just plain, nothingness.I don't feel creativity flow through my finger tips,I feel this might be a sinking ship,As neutral,Fades to the next hour or so.And I am once aga
God's PaintbrushI've learned that God's paintbrush is incredibly flawed,with lashes picked at, and bristles torn nearly off.I don't think everybody likes what God paints,because we're always trying to smear it away.We cut off a few pounds, or cut up some skin,when we soil the paper, we throw it in the trash bin.I think His paper has been sauntered with tears,or blood, and vulgar language from our peers.Like others have taken His brush and dipped it in oil,and have painted themselves, in a way that's soiled.I knew that God's paintbrush was incredibly flawed,but that doesn't mean that we should change it at all.“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” they say,perhaps it would be better to keep it that way.I'm incredibly certain that God makes no mistake,I think that we do, when we try to be fake.When we take His art into our own hands,and when we ruin the strokes that He carefully commands.I don't really think that God wants us to be perfect,if so, then He wouldn't take th
i think of bones encased in goldcall me sisyphus; my wristsgrip napalm nations & i amparasympathetic. i speakin cigarettes, more stippledspinal cord than americanromanticist. sanguinary, pocked,my pleural cavities leakprozac pills & -oh, this body has neverbelonged to me.
10:59if you by chancefind someonelocked away in their ownmind,let them be- it might bemore pleasantthan the outsideworld.
Memoir of DragonI desire...to...Soar through horizon,Submerge myself within a cradle of oceanInhale the elements,In return for the professing of my spiritAssert my existence,Ever hidden from your sensesMy wings transcendent,My being sublime...