Glassi found a mangled bodyand tried to fix it.but i got too closeand ended up cutting myselfon the jagged remains.the bleeding hasn't stopped.
-six word story-kiss me till my sadness melts
Self-destructionyou do not knowfresh out of the wombhow to tear yourself apart.you know how to respirateand nictitate butyou are not taughtto want to spill thefew calories you just consumedbehind a locked door on thecold tile floor.no one tells you thatfilling your lungs with taris dangerous. or howsipping away at Smirnoff can'tnumb the screams inside yourhead forever.you receive nowarning on how addictivecarving your own scarsor charring your skincan be.and no one mentions howphysically taxing it isto talk with a loaded gunbetween your teeth.you aren't born self-destructiveit's a diseasecommunicableand deadly
11:47roses are redviolets are bluecompliments mean nothingwhen coming from you.don't tell me i'm skinnydon't call me fatjust acknowledge i'm humanand leave it at that.
nineit's funny how carefulwe are aboutdamaging ourselvesproperly
sixhe plucked six white rosesfor meand even though they'll diein a week,it's matchless to any other gifti've received
Polar Oppositesi lay here in solitudedrowning in liquid powderwhile he wandersthrough flakes of mercurymaybe i'm too frozen for him to recover
Yesterdayyesterdayi nearly disposed ofmy existenceand i still have to wakeup, caked in a layer ofunfeeling burn marks, justto be swallowed by crowdsof ignorance again.just because i'm notcoughing up a lungdoesn't mean i'm notsick, and if you won'thelp me slay this monsterby giving me over to ahospital for souls, it's yourown damn fault i'm nevercoming home.
Fatefate is the slutwe take out fordinner in the LasVegas of life.She fucks us andthen leaves us ina dusty hotelroom, with only ourempty pockets andthe sun bleachingour eyes dry
i speak too fast for necromancya cigar-store solipsiststuffing towels in doorways,i was crowned prince asphyxia;oh, do not fall in love withdead boys - you can't makemartyrs out of suicide drones.
i'm only worth my weight in wordsyour gaunt little saturn-boy,your venus in blue: he's gothoneybees eating at his mind& cinder-ash rotting in his teeth;(oh the kid's just like a cigarette -the way he's burned himself bone-weary)
Astrali'm the seraphicromanticist,a hallowed bodyswallowing galaxieslike i am hellbent onself-deterioration
Breathing's Optionalsitting with smokey lungscharred around the pocketssmoldering dreamswith tears glued hastilyto your face.you bite your tonguekeep your throat closedand try to sleep again.
Identityi am aquixotic beingaddicted to wordsthe taste of summerand misery
seven truthful thingsi. give me a second to scratch the itch in my heart with a bulletii. or perhaps i'll use that bullet to clear my mindiii. how often do you catch me tracing that morgue-studded line running up my wrist?iv. my eyes linger on knives so long they carry their very own scarsv. remember your first kiss? mine tasted like road killvi. my real father's a ghost, the other's just a murderervii. my existence is a temporary thing, and i'm not patient when it comesto endings. but that doesn't mean i didn't enjoy everything prior to the credits
six words concerning the futurethe world's spinning promptly to hell
From Time To Time.From Time To Time.Want to know the value of ten years?Why don’t you try asking a newly divorced couple?And see if they have any wasted tears.Want to know the value of three years?Why don’t you try asking an exhausted graduate?And see if they are ready to start their career.Want to know the value of nine months?Why don’t you try asking a distraught mum?And see if she misses her baby bump.Want to know the value of four weeks?Why don’t try asking someone who has been fired?And see if they like prospect of living on the streets.Want to know the value of an hour?Why don’t you try asking someone who missed their alarm?And see if they still had time to eat breakfast and shower.Want to know the value of a minute?Why don’t you try asking someone who missed the last train?And see if they will be momentarily pushed to their limits.No matter the amount,Every single moment counts.Even when the first day becomes every dayAnd all the seconds a
Look Away From Your ScreenTake a look up,Away from your phone,Away from your work,And gaze at the stars.There are constellations,Hiding everywhere above,Just trace them with your finger,And find any one.Do you see?There's the dipper,Big and small,Hovering above us all.Or there is Orion,A brave hunter and soul,Having his belt,And carrying his shield.Did you forget they're here?Hiding during the day,Behind the pale blue sky,And returning with the yellow moon.We're all distracted it seems,By the bright screen of electronics,That we seemingly forget,How bright the stars are above.
i am no god-made manoh, you're so pathetic,with your parasitic nervousness;you're an anxious fever-boned boy& you've got manic headachesscrawled into gasoline anthemslike you don't know love'sonly parasympathetic &we're all romanticists(you may have smoke-spiral fingertips, butwe've all got a knack for burning ourselves out).
the back side of a sharpie cigaretteoh, i've got thorns & fruit fliesrotting out the flesh betweenmy ribs. they fester in theserabbit lungs until i cough themup as mechanical mockingbirds;like nightwalkers, they peck mythroat into a crumpled napkin verse.
voltagemy cracked skullleaks grey matter &selenic steam, but dearest,i can talk myselfinto a deity;i'm a galaxy boymelting my mindinto radioactivity
The Game MasterCome play with meThis game you cannot winYou don't stand a chanceYou don't have a choiceCome play with meLike I played onceAnd lost the gameJust like you willCome play with meThe Game MasterNow a mere shadowOf what I used to beCome play with meAnd surrender your heartSo you can earn the powerOf being The Game MasterCome play with meSo I can steal your soulTo replace the one I once hadAnd break this evil curseCome play with meSo I can be freeAnd leave you trappedInstead of me...
The PlaylistA group of us lying on the floorin a too-small apartmentthat can’t hold a fraction of our disorderssyndromes and symptomstucked under the kitchen sinkand in between self help booksand in the pages of love poetryonly half meant.A group of us lying on the floorwishing we could see the stars.but thats not how the architecturehas been set up for uswe have to live our lives blinkeredfrom the celestialbut at least we have each other.A group of us lying on the floorletting music replace our immune systemsnot caring if a misspent lyric saves us,not caring if a dropped note kills uswe don’t care about anything but the floor,these walls, these chains,that sound so familiar in an acoustic’s voice.A group of us lying on the floorcaring about nothing but the ceilingthats blocking out the light.
my earl of slander cries blue murderthis god made skeletons, dear, & this godmade deathbeds. here's our hospice:hypoxic migraine mirrors on the insideof our skulls. oh, ghosted, i am semi-parasitic& esotropic - the fevered phantom ofa boy too young to wither this way.
My ReflectionMy reflectionOh, how I hate that mirrorPlease break it downThe nights I stand gazing,I'm on my knees, begging you pleaseI don't want to look anymore...No, I don't want to seeTheGhost staring back at me Driving me to insanityStuck in between…Glass and false reflectionsTaking over meEven I don't recognize myselfI don’t know the person staring at meI know it’s meCAN’T YOU SEE!I’M IN TOO DEEP!This feeling, itches….Down inside flesh and boneWhy do you laugh, when I cry?Why did I do the things you told me to?You reflect back at meI know what my eyes cannot seeI will never be freeMy arm still burns Cuts and bruises covered meJust thinking of itGives me a rush'Maybe two more pounds lessYou will look and feel much better'I know it is wrongI try not to follow alongBut I’m not always strongI always need more ,More to feel betterI can't necessarily blame youWhen it is me...I am y
we have always been matchmakers (rigor-mortis)a twenty-seventh nightmareis swelling up in my lungs -oh, plath & i are peckingat sarcophagi; we're burningself-destruction intocrematory skeletons & makingmatches from the voices thatused to be our madness.
razor-sharp shakespeare.dear boy:right now a girl isremembering too many painful conversationsabout why exactly she isstripping the feathers from her wings with sharp-edged poetryand watching the slashes bleed words.right now a girl isbrainstorming what she could have done betterand doing exactly the oppositefor wounded wings breed perversity.and who knows, maybe that girl isalso thinking about the aquamarine eyesthat tempted her to flit higheruntil her wings remembered they're raw and brokenthen snapped and let her fall like icarus into a stormy sea.and it's a sure thing that that girl limps home laterand reads Shakespeare with a razor blade as a bookmark.my dear boy,please keep a better eye on her in the future.if there is one.
Endlessi could talk to youuntil my throat bledfrom all the sharp cornersof every wordand i'd listen to your voiceuntil the suncircles the moon.and then some