Because It's Everything

And I might be beautiful if it weren’t for all these scars. This rot ridden soul. Putrid and hateful.
No matter how deep the razor goes it just can’t reach what’s wrong. Because it’s everything. Every breath, beat, lash, cell. Every day, hour, moment. Curling out, up, in.

The only way to get out is to break out for good. Break down. Decay. Big bright red Cheshire grin. Sloppy jagged hunks of flesh sickeningly remindful of teeth gushing crimson vomit. And it’s all tumbling out now.
Worthless
Wasteful
Wicked
Wrong
Wrong
Wrong
And if you ever did anything right they might love you.
If you cease. Cease to be. Think.

And if you could, please, just be a little less you. However, it really doesn’t seem to be worth my time, so why don’t you just continue on.

While you’re busy championing Jonathan Harker, I’m mourning Dracula.
And who is there to hold me while I lose control?
Who is there to ease the pain of loss?
Who is there to ease the heartache?
Who is there to tell me the sun will set and night will return once more?


Maybe they would be,
If you weren’t a Monster.

But then who would you be?

You Can’t Spell Slaughter Without Laughter

I don't know what I’ve done wrong. these days in vein searching every detail how wide the fine tooth comb

muddled mishaps scream while indecisions beg lulling false pretensions into hysteria

and every attempted scream merely issues forth sycophantic gushes of glee. a lying smile. this sweet façade. beyond the back door the girl is dying cold in the warm summer sun

in this crowd I am alone

this boy he smiles and holds me gently. and carefully he wraps me within tight ropes and my naïveté shines softly as i docile lie.

crucified in silence, not a whisper. and how carefully the unwrapping. the ropes serve again hoisted some sick carnival ride, afraid I’m the late addition

sweet silhouette upon the hill. a golden ticket lost, and i have watched all along to beg the question

can martyrs be void within?

smile. the jackal found it disconcerting when instead of laughter ink issued forth. far cry to the blackness of beyond lying in wait just within.

Burn It All Down

Sometimes I wonder how I surround myself with these people. These sick sycophants who parade around like Godzilla in Tokyo. These goblins who wreak havoc and copulate destruction. I'm withering in this sunless environment, this dying flower. Diseased and full of decay.

Sometimes I think I have everything all wrong. I've misread this map, a convoluted conjecture as to my position and the one I am supposed to be in. This surreal bubble is all consuming and treacherous.

Perhaps I'm seeking validation in the wrong places. Or maybe I have stopped looking at all.