death is sweet release.

left to rot

quite possibly the worst dream of my life. i feel like killing myself.

__________________________________________


i'm going to re-read it and convince myself that everything was a lie.

i just want to sew my eyes shut and die.

past life regression

a dead soul in a decaying, dying body.

southern trees bear strange fruit
blood on the leaves and blood at the root
black bodies swinging in the southern breeze
strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees

pastoral scene of the gallant south
the bulging eyes and the twisted mouth
scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh
then the sudden smell of burning flesh

here is fruit for the crows to pluck
for the rain to gather, for the wind to suck
for the sun to rot, for the trees to drop
here is a strange and bitter crop.

sometimes i wonder why i didn't die in that moment. no more hurt for me, no more hurt for anybody.

"i can't believe you did it..."

i'm sorry i hurt you. and continue to hurt you.

i can never forgive myself.

please be yourself.

we were animated.
we are not animated.

we are animated.

we are animated.

miserable

i am going to die.
i can't wait until i die.
die.

nobody will know

this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
this isn't going to hurt.
i'm not scared.

untitled

i am a skeptic.
i will always ask questions until the death of me.

It is beautiful.
it will work Its way into the depths of your weary, tired soul, possessing every cell of you.
it's sort of the gimmick.
but It's real.
It's beautiful.
to tears.
when It is the centerpiece of your closure, It really IS there.
this, this is honestly one of the most beautiful things i have ever witnessed.
to experience it myself... i'll get there some day.

you love me. i don't love me.

but this one concept, it is a wonder.
there are things i choose to believe in, and some i choose not to.
i was hesitant but came out satisfied.
still piecing together what it all means.
is it,
the untamed brain, conscience with a name-change?

lie, rely.
lie.
liar.
what does it take to lie in front of hundreds?
to boldly state, "i am being a hypocrite"?
in front of thousands?
kudos to you if you weren't lying though.

stop covering up in the fucking symbolism, get real.

It's beautiful, believe me.
but people will try to connect it to every possible favourable event.

so maybe i acknowledge Its existence?

but i still think self-worth skyrockets if you don't fall back on It.
Him.

you love me, but i don't love me.

____________________________________________________________________

you love me, but i don't love me.
is this just bloodshed now?
i'm pathetic.
i hate everyone, and i hate myself.
dreams of cutting limbs, skinning, decapitation.
hanging, stabbing, impaling, disemboweling.
all by me.
of me?
towards other people?
yeah yeah.
you love me, but i don't love me.
just takes a couple fucking balls man.
"what's wrong?"
"me."
me. me, everything about me.
the way i think, the way i am.
cut.
scissors? knife?
blood everywhere.

i'm fed up.
with nobody, but myself.

no job, no life.
no self-worth. peeled slowly and willingly away.

i'm sick, sick of me, sick of myself, sick of everything i have and haven't done.
a headache and stuffy nose don't mean shit anymore.

i don't love me, i don't love me.

goodbye world.

yep, i'm fucking jealous. i need a fucking job. can't just complain all the fucking time.

silenced.

like a muzzled pistol. except when they fuck up the gun so the shooter is the one who gets shot. because when i try to pull the trigger and tell you how i really feel, you don't hear anything from me. i don't really know how the mechanism works, but i guess that the bottom line is that the bullet goes through my chest. terrible analogy. haha.

so, what i want to say comes out as a directionless, anorexic wisp of air.

it's all in my heavy heart. i want to show it. i wish i could tell you, but my mouth has been stitched shut.

please help me.

haha i'm weak.

i'm really not worth anything.

the clock's ticking...

no, fuck that. cliché shit. fuck your analog clocks.





"and you may begin!"

i say my prayer, so i won't feel like shit later. it's getting hard to breathe, air is thin like... stapled papers opened in fast motion. forgetful-force trauma, pain to the brain is potent, all previous knowledge runs dry, need some fuckin' lotion. pressure placed on peers. race with the digital clock's lines, they shapeshift, seven becomes eight and, i go ape-shit facing the colon that blinks. can't take a moment to think, gotta convert anything i remember into ink. half-hour passes, one hour remaining, what the fuck did i learn in my classes? i don't know, my head's fucking aching. just choose the least-chosen answer, but that's just dropping a hammer on these math marks. it's a risk, but this isn't a board game. here's my foray into the flames of "course failed". studied for four days, but now my mind is frail. more than half the data lost, and anything i knew, threw into a catastrophic mosh, it's now applesauce. unable to recover equations, no time for waiting. only recalled one formula - now i'm racing, F1, but i'm just overwhelmed... where's my keyboard? i wish i could press that button for help. running laps in my head space, but i still end up in the same place. time's almost up. must finish in 60 seconds, but just too many unanswered questions, can't be lying, no denying, i start self-confessing that there's nothing left to do. i'm guessing that the earlier "amen" was just bad luck disguised as a blessing. unnerving uncertainty in my multiple choices decisions, this is so depressing that later on i'll be making my own skin incisions.

"time's up! hand in your test papers please."

um, i guess i just haven't worked hard enough.

time to go past any fucking limits.

but i'm getting more fucked up too.

i want it all, but i feel like shit because i can't do anything.

or can i?

"jealousy" isn't really the right word, but it's the first word that comes to mind.

what is it,

that fills the space between

two parallel facial façades facing each other?

we laud the Lord for the existence and significance of that special being in our lives,

seeing with our eyes and

feeling on the inside that,

"how is it possible that i'm with one who's so perfect?"

in the sub-skin, the energy that slips back

and forth between the thin cracks

of the hands when tightly intact,

clasped and grasped as if our days approached their last...

what IS that feeling?

when we find out that there's more to it than just

having someone who's "appealing"?

one plus one, probably could be

the story of a hollywood movie,

but instead, this is reel.

emotions - cereberal chemical reactions speeding with vertical velocity, smashing and fracturing through the attic, revealing

that the one you love could send your endorphins soarin' higher than the ceiling.

this is, knowing that nothing is concealing the sun from shining and beaming on this new future...

when you don't even have to ask yourself, "are you sure?"

money transformed you.

good morning/afternoon on this beautiful day.

i don't feel like being alive today.

you know, i am REALLY psychologically fucked up.

like, fuck. my thought (or lack thereof) just really fucks everything up.