Post Hardcore Poetry – sarcasm depicted seriously

what happens now?
We've stretched our skin to the limit
now if we tug a bit more, we'll kiss ourselves

during the process of conjuring up
and taking the temporary role
of a bloodthirsty fate decider in movies,
after searching and tearing apart myself to find you
looking in all the wrong places
i've found my absolution
other than these limp wrists before me
which i've retaliated

i am my own catharsis
and i'd rather feel nothing than pain
which makes hours blend
into days, which bleed and seep into
a year
then they clot up
which decides
my fate

i'm tough! Why do you ask such a thing?
Is it not obvious that i am still the
king in a dress?

I love the polite way of expressing the devil's beliefs
i could hide myself in a shell
make myself tough
and behind my facade
i'll cry every day, then hang myself in a lake of my sorrows

while abusing everything


what happens now?
You're stuck, despondent
glued to the chemical inconsistencies
and a broken fuse inside
a power cut shouldn't last this long

i've been burying myself in the sand, because
perhaps, on the cusp of hope, the waves will embrace
me close than you have ever done

i'm sick of lives

i'm sick of you

trying not to listen to my sadistic heroes
i'll try and make it up to you
i'm sorry
for not being good enough, farewell

now you see what you want to see
you can burn your eyes, wrap yourself
but the sun will continue to glare
and you will feel its crisp dagger

maybe someday you'll no longer resort to hardcore methods
walking in life, blind.