Oh, thrilling.
This is hard to do.
I am doing it anyway.
Carving thinly and with a precise hatred,
a tear on my sheet, a hot sphere of rage for you.
I feel the sting and hand it over,
too bad you have no idea.
A thick and muddy compression,
a slow suffocation.
An epic cadence,
a death notice in parentheses.
In the nuisance of genius,
you take me off with your coat
~~~
Dizzy checkered halls still for no one,
a souless knight or not.
~~~
Don't call it that, you're surely mistaken.
I show him my hands, analysis taken.
I show him devotion, disregarded.
I give him my soul, it's cleanly discarded.
His famed compensation,
punctured, it seeps.
And I'm just the creature,
whom aimlessly weeps.
~~~
The Apple.
Teeth puncture flesh like a gunshot.
And whipped into a world where nothings' sacred.
Seeds falling down a tier of fever-dreams.
Setting up root in a random soul.
~~~
You spilled over and out,
Escaped through the breathing holes I so lovingly gave you.
But the signs of your struggle are proof that you lived once,
Inside me.
Exstinguished.
Miscarried a love, and mourning a lie.
Born to blossom, and blooming to die.
~~~
Thick black clots of melting metal.
Tarnished, unwilling, dreading their beautiful purpose.
A sheath of terror to keep you warm...
It echos so ugly, strikes a warm panic that richochets within the sullen walls.
So cold, whilst she burns alive.
Not quite enough becomes too much.
Her flesh falls from her and she kisses it goodbye.
She is chipping away at herself frantically like a starving animal,
And as much as she loves to see it go, she keeps it like an obsessed lover.
Blinded. Correct. Perfect-postured.
She refuses to fall.
So instead, death smothers her.
Does her the favour.
Envelops her, a tempting promise.
A sheath of terror, to keep her warm.
And now she is essential.
She is safe from herself.
So far gone, as she opens the door.
~~~
Screaming secrets infantile,
something you need beaten out.
Surely you're a concubine,
tucked inside a serpents' mouth.
Surely thickly printed on,
the things she leaves around his house,
can surely be much better, than any story in a stain.
~~~
See you on the other side.
Ameoba life, an empty thrive.
A dulling ache, a wantoness.
It drains, commences again.
Circuted, but where is the line?
The blood is brown now, the life has dried.
The blossom blooms, the blossom dies.
Your face goes twisted, guilty, familiar.
Discomfort resonates, and childhood haunts this room now.
The walls are cold like hospital tile.
They reek of it. They taste of it.
Flesh-tones will invade the blind, they violate the virgin eye.
Thrust upon them, a coma-white.
The silence loud now, unbearably so.
No longer a crowd, now. And the curtains close.
Circuted.
I am doing it anyway.
Carving thinly and with a precise hatred,
a tear on my sheet, a hot sphere of rage for you.
I feel the sting and hand it over,
too bad you have no idea.
A thick and muddy compression,
a slow suffocation.
An epic cadence,
a death notice in parentheses.
In the nuisance of genius,
you take me off with your coat
~~~
Dizzy checkered halls still for no one,
a souless knight or not.
~~~
Don't call it that, you're surely mistaken.
I show him my hands, analysis taken.
I show him devotion, disregarded.
I give him my soul, it's cleanly discarded.
His famed compensation,
punctured, it seeps.
And I'm just the creature,
whom aimlessly weeps.
~~~
The Apple.
Teeth puncture flesh like a gunshot.
And whipped into a world where nothings' sacred.
Seeds falling down a tier of fever-dreams.
Setting up root in a random soul.
~~~
You spilled over and out,
Escaped through the breathing holes I so lovingly gave you.
But the signs of your struggle are proof that you lived once,
Inside me.
Exstinguished.
Miscarried a love, and mourning a lie.
Born to blossom, and blooming to die.
~~~
Thick black clots of melting metal.
Tarnished, unwilling, dreading their beautiful purpose.
A sheath of terror to keep you warm...
It echos so ugly, strikes a warm panic that richochets within the sullen walls.
So cold, whilst she burns alive.
Not quite enough becomes too much.
Her flesh falls from her and she kisses it goodbye.
She is chipping away at herself frantically like a starving animal,
And as much as she loves to see it go, she keeps it like an obsessed lover.
Blinded. Correct. Perfect-postured.
She refuses to fall.
So instead, death smothers her.
Does her the favour.
Envelops her, a tempting promise.
A sheath of terror, to keep her warm.
And now she is essential.
She is safe from herself.
So far gone, as she opens the door.
~~~
Screaming secrets infantile,
something you need beaten out.
Surely you're a concubine,
tucked inside a serpents' mouth.
Surely thickly printed on,
the things she leaves around his house,
can surely be much better, than any story in a stain.
~~~
See you on the other side.
Ameoba life, an empty thrive.
A dulling ache, a wantoness.
It drains, commences again.
Circuted, but where is the line?
The blood is brown now, the life has dried.
The blossom blooms, the blossom dies.
Your face goes twisted, guilty, familiar.
Discomfort resonates, and childhood haunts this room now.
The walls are cold like hospital tile.
They reek of it. They taste of it.
Flesh-tones will invade the blind, they violate the virgin eye.
Thrust upon them, a coma-white.
The silence loud now, unbearably so.
No longer a crowd, now. And the curtains close.
Circuted.