God of gods, with sight upon earth and words of divination; “Here be demons, here be hell”.

Living in his world, my only solace is my daily mantra; “I’ll be okay, I’ll just kill myself tomorrow”.

My pooling tears are a mirror that reflects sorrow.

Human touch was my only human need. Desperate affection is the only thing I greed.

I am without all, I feel unseen, so very small. I write my own rose tinted love letter to myself as Venus and my veins bleed.

God stuck man in muddy land, for dirty are your souls. With your fluids and earthen soil, he made a nasty brew.

He added his eyes he tore out with a single cork screw, then he made the potion your blood. EVIL IS YOU!

Wrathfully rhyming rending reveries of ripping of my rainy life’s repulsively and rancidly unromantic remains.

Shackled by black brimstone chains. Tainted by glowing red veins. Isolated, forever, so I’ll blow out my brains.

A person who’s fingers are sewing together holes in the sweater of my heart. My insides are dead, I won’t come back.

Pressure building, exploding ventricles. My heart popped like the balloons in the celebration for my death. Popped by a tack.

The thrums of my cuddle craving weeping, played by heartache’s lone and single stringed harp.

The notes are languidly wistful, sorrowfully somber. They are stabbing, pointy, rigid and sharp.

Such is my suffering, and so is the essential existential requisite for our god’s lust of burning bracken, and living char.

The bite of nightmare, and the lascivious touchful caress of hellful torture, all rampaging in our earth, as hot as a star.

God demands bloody drink to go with the splintered souls he gluts.

God got drunk and played a joke called life. So I’ll rip out his stomach. I will dance in his guts.

Nothing but delightful embraces can reach past my black and into my heart. All of creation, it’s un-remarkably insufficient.

The sum of my personality is the pain. I long for sensual tenderness, but I died while still achingly hug deficient.

Dubiously diabolically delusional, the thought that I’ll ever feel cradled in arms that aren’t strangling me. In death, I’d revel.

Deprived of my human right for love, I ended it all. I stabbed horns into the ground, for this land is the devil,

and so, in my lonesome, I will get to kiss, still. My soul’s worth is a silvery coin, because my life was so very young.

I’ll whirl and swirl with the burning witches, and eat the thorny blackberry bramble from Satan's silver tongue.

All days begin with finding out what was lost in the night. My being is untrue.

Circles of black, closing in on my vision, like dull guillotines slicing my sight away into gratefully permanent relief.

I am kicking and biting away my life. Defunct and departed, a heart beat away from the all engorging grief.

We are ill and sickly, permanently enduring the chilling shivers of shade.

Everlasting aches, chronic shaking and shivers that only come from waking. Pain persisting, even after we fade.

My Willow, I use her as a pillow. She’s as broken and twisted as me, for only the mad could love the starkly wretched.

Our souls forgot each other’s and our own names, from maggots of undoing. Now we lay down in our death dread.

She turned as cold as the moon, as pale as its alabaster.

We’ll stay here, both as rotten as two pumpkins in an overgrown pasture.

Bugs and worms inside our skeletons, fluttering dirt where our hearts were. Our bones are intertwined.

Our dreary wisps of breath, slowing and cooling. To rock and mud, soon to be confined.

Striated light through the cracks of molding wood, foggy air full of warped gloom.

Binding roots of rot, and wrapped in chains of silver. Plants siphon and drain our bodies, while pretty flowers bloom.

Demons haunt the ghosts haunting me. Bloating on the taste of my spirit, quintessence forever spooky.

Gears a’turnin, hope a’burnin. A clock in my head, ancient, and a’rustin. Moldering memories a’dustin. We’re deranged and kooky.

Stygian shards, falling like arrows in my suffocating night sky.

Decaying day by day. Withering and wilting as they’ve all gone by.

Life is a spider, crafting the web of my world, made from gossamer silk, shaped like a noose.

I’m swinging from a branch, with fangs of venom and silken burns around my neck. My solemn solitude is beyond abuse.

Eaten away, like burning stars, by my state of horror. My love is ethereal like the lying whisper of her echoing voice,

one that bounces off the tombstones in our glade and scratches words into rock. Words that tell how the people died, without asking them for a choice.

I am like water. My feelings evaporate into the air, leaving behind something barren and dry.

Then they fall down in torrents, drowning the land, flooding nature, bleeding the sky.

My body ripping out of itself in chunks, and the rest in atomized scraps.

My eyes glaze over. Every once in a while I come back to reality, only from impatient snaps.

She’s dead and I’m dying.

She’s gone and I’m crying.

Bleeding, pleading and screaming. Cradling a corpse. I ended my life, rending my flesh with a craven brack bite.

I’ll hold her still, and we’ll sleep together. Joined and mingled in a forever lasting raven black night.

My despair is when my friends I thought were my friends forgot me, but only after they destroyed me first.

My despair is when my blood family tried to claw and drag me into death, when they hurt me just to quench their boredom.

My despair is when I lay alone at night, and my chest burns like there is a hole in my heart. My despair is feeling as my tears fall, but not making a sound because I can’t bother expending the energy it would take.

My despair is when I remember that I have nobody, and nobody has me. That I have gone my whole life never having a single real friend. That I am alone, as I have been forever.

My despair is when I remember that I could disappear, and no one would be concerned, no one would remember.

My despair is when I remember that I have never felt love, that I have only felt the absence of it and the feeling of it fleeing from me like I am some sort of monster.

My despair is when I realize I may never get to feel it, that I may never find a single friend.

My despair is the endurance of existing with no other human who wants to hold me when I cry, no other person to listen to my thoughts and who I can listen back to.

My despair is knowing something must be wrong with me for having nobody, for being this way my entire life.

My despair is the thought that the coldness that replaces my love will never end.

My despair is knowing death is more likely to end my suffering than anything else.

My despair is my lone exaltless misery.

My despair is my dancing skeleton’s glee.

Every morning, the air in my lungs, quickly depleting.

I awake to the hollow. My eyes are empty of light, my bed empty of warmth.

Surrounded by reminders of what is left inside of me, nothing at all.

Greedy hands slipped into my gushing scars, like bottom feeders to a rotting whale.

They feel around to grab and steal. They are too late. Life itself already ripped everything out.

My voice sounds like a violin made of copper and melting iron.

A violin that makes an unbearable sound. A sound that makes the liquid in my eyes vibrate.

It vibrates like shaking hands on the arms of a person who only has them self to hug.

The same hands that will still be shaking as they wipe away my tears, before the blades they hold wipe away my heart’s blood.

Every day I fall asleep, my vocal cords are sliced. I am left with nothing, and loved by nothing and no one except hollowness and my own blood.

Every night, air bursts into my lungs. It feels like mustard gas and acid. It gives me the oxygen to live one more worthlessly isolated and nightmarishly lonely day.

Until the torture is too great, until the frantic need for the misery to go away steals my soul. Until the calm frenzy of escape takes over my shaking body.

Until my own death becomes water to my unendurable thirst. And until I frantically drink the oceans of it that I will squeeze out of my arteries.

my only solace is a pen stroke away, but my fingers are frozen.

The ellipse was

the fallen feathers of a bird soaring, one leaving me behind to reach the heights.

Life is abuse to the materials that were stolen and combined into jarring sapience,

they were reflections of reflections barely anything at all.

My hope is frozen,

from agonizing despair,

strangled by thorny vines.

My liquid thought turned to crystalline ice before I could form any idea.

I watched.

And climbed a tree.

The only warmth I know is like the one felt before hypothermic deaths.

Rotten fruit,

like my sacrifices of chances, and turns, fall into each other, looping into the circles of the holes in

my Swiss cheese heart.

Flying in the sky, in ecstasy and pie, eaten by venus, stolen from the heavens, now I will die.

My pain is expressed as the letters in a language that only has words to describe its own uselessness,

so I’m falling forever, like a snowflake adrift, one that will melt before it finds ground,

one hearing the agonizing screams of the past, through the calamities of today.

I hated

the replicas of already dull shapes, simulacra pure,

echoes of meaninglessness, shown in the refractions of broken class,

like the light in the mirror of the water pool

I was

in the garden of.

with a rusty iron door that only works on Mondays,

to trap things away.

I reside in a void of my own creation.

I am a mossy rock

in a burned forest.

A rock that is unknown to people,

and hidden away in ash.

Unknown until they make the trek through my burned home,

flip me over,

and get eaten by the spiders that I hide.

For this special moment, this special feast,

I come out from behind the door of the dead.

I watch, I weep.

And a red misty haze comes from my evaporating tears,

covering it all in blood.

Taunting and jaunting are the screams in my skull.

Laughing and lying about the things I need most.

To be less than human, alienated and opaque.

My skin can’t feel, my tongue is broken.

I was born to feel, born to speak. Made to be like the rest.

Yet I’m now a faulty product, begging to be a real person.

To feel the same needs as the rest.

To long for connection, and to have no sense of it.

I am a bat with no hearing, a frog with no croaks, a bird with no songs.

A watcher. I observe life as it is, and I ask why mine is no life at all.

I must be monstrous to have been left behind by my own species.

They must think I should be separated, for I am hardly even subhuman.

I watch people’s smiles, and wonder why my mine looks like a gaping hole.

I see happiness in icy reflections, and I ask why I was born with no soul.

The weight of their choices, they force me to bear.

They are star shaped, and star sized.

The holes in my heart, forced to be excised.

Fierce and jagged, the edges of my sight.

What I see is utterly bitter, with sadness and blight.

No future to behold, no past to ponder.

I'm dead and burried, spirit a'wander.

I'll haunt the world that tortured me so.

Crazed and burning, red eyes a'glow.

Fowel and vile, the words of the choir.

Scorch their church, blaze with a hellish fire.

I'm burried and dead, lost and alone.

Scalding and singed, for what they've done, they'll atone.

My ear drums rip, for my ghostly wails rend.

I'll shriek and shout, into the void of my closureless end.

Laying under a blood moon I can’t see. Hands of the black, and stolen sight. To wallow.

I try to make sense of a world’s worth of insanity, and just make my own.

Where are my answers? What are the reasons? I only wish I had known.

My gaping chest, burned and hollow. My insides naught but ashen char.

My last fibers twitched to escape, then they melted. I am passionless tar.

Being born into such a world, it was bound to disappoint. A foregone conclusion.

Any good I have ever known has been twisted, a contorted and gutting illusion.

My face’s flesh under my broken finger nails. My body falling apart, falling away.

How far I always was from anything real was all I could think of on my last day.

I’m ghostly and gaunt, but I still feel boiling tears burn my skin then steam.

All I can do is sit and cry, and scream, and scream, AND SCREAM

After my fading, all feelings are replaced with one meaning; essential dread.

After death, my memories are replaced with two words; existential, dead.

Jeg se bare darlig ting, øye min har cyster.

Jeg legge på sofaen, og jeg kan bare skrik “faen”.

Jeg er i hevete, men jeg ser gjennom himmelens lågen.

Vi alle trenger mer en vi har.

Vi alle forventet mer en vi fikk i alle vår ar.

Hvis livet min var en sang, ører min ville blødning.

Hvis livet min var en bok, det ville slutt med en dødning.

Jeg skriver er meningsløs.

Jeg river i stykker, smerte min er en sløs.

I jeer and laugh at the joke of my tears. And I just stop trying to try.

There is a living darkness inside my brain, it makes me justify my own existence.

Miles and miles I run, swim, fly. I drag myself away. But it always closes the distance.

The only thing my flesh cuddles are my own cracking bones, until I’m naught but rot.

My life is a dark sensory deprivation chamber of affection. Torturous screaming, upon death, I’m wrought.

My skin forgot how to feel touch, mouth forgot how to laugh. My tears bled me dry until my eyes forgot to work.

Oh, to never know happiness, but to know it’s shape. I despise being alive in life, being dead is its only perk.

There is a living darkness eating my soul. It feels a type of hunger that it’s hungry for more of.

It devours my thoughts and rends my nerves. I’ve never known language I because I’ve never known the word “love”.

The dark lets me ask one question, only so it can answer. Where did it go wrong? “At every chance to get better.”.

My chances have lead to choices where I’ve always chosen the wrong one. My last words will be written on a suicide letter.

I wait for the sun to rise and make my empty sky star-full and bright. But the void-full night has just gotten blacker and blacker.

I’ll lay down in a room and stay still until I’m dead. I’ve lost the energy to lift a gun to my head. The dark is my attacker.

If it were a squirrel, it wouldn’t eat acorns, but entire forests. But it is the dark, and it has eaten my entire universe.

Stuck in a ball, my shivering body is curled. It is just me and it in the void it has left us. FUCK MY EXISTENCE, IT IS A CURSE

My brain, my heart, my soul. They are gone. Now the empty shell of my being is left. Small and glooming.

There’s nothing left inside my husk. All that the dark left was ceaseless black. All consuming.

I’ve outpaced the living, there is not even bird song.

My spheres of recollection turn alive, information they glean.

A red curtain in the woods, floating. Serene and clean.

Through the branches, coldly whispering wind rips.

As limbs tear through the curtains, pupils dilate over my irises, eclipse.

There are suddenly too many arms with too many faces.

Too many eyes, too many fingers. I am stuck in their inescapable embraces

Out from under the red, they all grab and tug and pull, and pull, and pull.

My face is red and my eyes are teary. My freezing heart, scaredness full.

I run and claw and crawl my way into a coffin kept glade.

A place where color goes to fade, a place where memories can’t be made

I’d have never outran this forest’s scythe’s reaping. I hear linen folds, and soft creeping.

Wet pitter patter on a mossy stone grave, coldly whimpering, frigidly fragile weeping.

The path has ended in a graveyard. I look out into the dark forest of trees, I freeze.

Surrounding the glade of graves, slow moving curtains, and a chilly breeze.

The world’s gone as pale as my drained skin. Curtains cover the universe in myriad.

There were three pages in my life, and I’m stuck reading the last period.

You never know what is waiting beyond, on the last page.

You never know what’s hiding behind the curtain.

All alone, to see my sorrow fall and settle.

I found a way into a quietly rainy realm.

I’m bound, next to a charred and scarred witch elm.

Forever churning soil. Growing, a toadstool.

Never, the sky clear, so I drowned in a rain pool.

A fairy ring on dirty dust, over mossy bone.

Right above my cozy coffin, my lowly throne.

Left alone, and so it is. And now I’m dead.

All alone, to be eaten, by a flower bed.

Wilting are my smiles as I smell a dying rose.

Such thoughts make my heart beat fast. I fear, my heart will spill.

I dread that I’ll panic, that my blood will gush faster still.

I wish I was as calm as a dead flower, a falling feather.

But my wound is gushing torrents, as I hear thunderous weather.

Oh god, it’s going too fast. I don’t know how much longer it’ll last.

I just need more time, to outlive living’s wretched grime. Forever agast.

Beating of hearts, swaying of waves, pattering of rain.

Sounds replaced by the ticking of my death clock, and the red pain in my vein.

The ocean has a rhythm born of the moon, but recently it has been silent.

I imagine all the things that could disrupt nature’s rythms, they’re all violent.

I have to investigate. So into the ocean, straight down, into the void, I’ll dive.

I dove too deep, but I have to know. I’m not coming back up for air while alive.

I can feel the pressure against me as I swim down and down into the depths.

My ocean is a teary red. Waterlogged are my last lung crushing and gargled breaths.

The cold in my limbs, slowly advancing.

I am in a chrysalis of carnation, waiting to be free.

I can’t wait for my skin to fall away, my skeleton, me, to be an escapee.

I wriggle and tear, bruised body tissue softens.

When I am out, I will go to the coffin store to buy decrepit coffins.

To be dead, to leave muscle and blood. Now I forever smile.

I have always found life to be disgusting and vile.

I could not take it anymore, I wanted to be happy. So I made a deal with a fairy.

It ate my soul and said I would smile eternally. Nocturnally, to bury.

He was right, now my crimson skull grins.

I thank him, as my dull ribcage spins and spins.

He is in a cage, and I only feed him moldy bread.

I keep a chest full of rotten apples, to huff the fumes.

Then I beat my homunculus, with broken and jagged brooms.

He is vicious and rabid, dead eyes, a little demon.

He whispers in my dreams, asks me to free him.

My horrible alchemical tinkering’s. Finally gone awry.

I make him pray for me, all he says is; “THEE ARE THY”.

And so I ponder my orb, thinking about things of change.

Wandering and wondering, why my homunculus acts so strange.

I crumble onto the ground. Being conscious is my mentally dull aberration.

All the arms to ever give warm hugs are just dust that has not been born yet. Such disgust.

The sanity I had left, alone too long, flown away like leaves, by an autumnal gust.

There is no escape, there are no ways out. I am divided by space, and severed is my love.

Nothing jives, and my life’s dysphoria thrives. Don’t expect a rhyme, be as disappointed as me.

I tumble down a staircase built to walk up. Carrying my own weight is no longer worth.

I crash and fumble down this staircase of existence, down into the crushing center of the earth.

Silent horror in tired eyes. I don’t have tears anymore, they were eaten by despair.

Now it gnaws at the sound I hear, the words I give, the life I can no longer live. Oh, to care.

I beg for depth in a shallow world, while I am suffocated by my empty coffin.

I passed out in pain, and I can’t lift my mouth above the water. My soon rotting eyes, to soften.

Some of us don’t get solace until the day we die. Soon I’ll be rotten.

Soon I’ll be nothing and forgotten. My bone’s powder as white as cotton

Yet the tree’s will still turn orange, and the leaves will still fall, into autumnal rest.

Until they turn orange from flame, and fall from death. Like the atomized burning in my empty chest.

A husk of what I ever was. From the light of stars, eternally barred.

Wandering in the black too long, it seeps into my tissue.

I’m too deep into the madness, I cease to see the issue.

It’s so vast, it has replaced my future, and my past.

I used hear voices in the void, asking why I’m so downcast.

My smile was stolen by a parasite of hate, and it eats my happiness.

Forgetting to inhale. Drowning in the murk, I come up for air less and less.

As my lids close, and my tears run dry, I reluctantly give my final breath.

In darkness, I scream. As I am hugged one last time, by my final death.

Lungs full of dirt, can’t feel, can’t be hurt. My orbs of sight forever closed.

Crunchy orange leaves, on top my grounded bed. Blanket, covering me, forever dead.

This disgusting world deserves no colors, but raven black, and blood crimson red.

Sleeping trees, hidden breeze, starting to flow. Starting to freeze my drowning river.

Unfeeling skin. No soft hugs, no nightly grin. Sharpened knife, stabbed myself in the liver.

Green moss on gray stone. Dirty dust on white bone. Forgotten here, left forever alone.

Ethereal tendrils of nerves, coming from my soul. The agony they feel, outwardly unknown.

I was a reflection of the universe, and I forgot myself.

It has eluded catch for as long as thought, and as wide as time.

The more you muse, the more of it you shall lose.

For the needy, it will never choose.

It will never find some of our souls, while driving others insane.

It is as formless as water, as sharp as a claw, as vague as a shrug.

It is as hated as the beholder hates themself, and as loved as they love themself.

It lies in truths and conveys points of inanity.

It rhymes with nothing, for it is like only itself.