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.