I don't have the words to explain anymore. I've proved "be careful what you wish for" to be true, in only minutes. Wait, has it been several hours?

Dieu? I'l n'existe pas pour moi.

Oh, god. J'ai perdu mon esprit, vraiment.

Disdain, disgust

October 10, 2011


Fear is a callous monster,

a dead snake, wrapped around my wrists.

Bending time to sit still and stare

taunt and tease you.

Sending the stiffness to your joints,

freezing hearts cold,

burning eyes bright anew.


Fear is that shaking monster, hiding behind your back.

Because he's scared of himself and he doesn't understand why.

And you're scared of him,

because you know too much, far too much.


Here I am again.

Taking shots of poison.

Could I be any more stupid?


And here I am again,

running the bear trap marathon,

sticking my hand in serrated saws,

pricking my finger

on mouse trap needles.


And all the while.

Dear Mr. Fear, chasing me at my back.

Killing me from the cerebrum out.

Bleeding me and sucking my existence out.


The music couldn't be loud enough,

(I'm not deaf yet)

the lights couldn't be whiter,

(I can still see)

because I've eaten all I can,

until I had to run outside

and puke in the grass,

so no one finds.


Because I haven't slept in so long,

this sickness just keeps surging back,

and I keep flailing uselessly,

beneath a sea of showering disease,

a falling star-sky of shitlessly scared eyes.

They want to know me better,

they want to take a hold of me,

to prove that I'm real.


But I'm as real as the men who holler

from passing by cars,

the ones who look all they fucking want.

Do you think this is a free show?


I exist to breathe, not to entertain your sorry eyes,

not to play along with your pathetic guise.

Self hate, self delay.

I couldn't tell the difference,

between broken sidewalks,

and deconstructed roads.


Once again, and once again.

What is this I'm doing?

Making a fool of what really truly is

a weak minded, unable-bodied

pity-me please little warrior,

a fighter of des filles,

a broken doll toy, baby,

won't you come at me?


Won't you attack me

and tear the flesh from

feasting ligaments,

twisted tendons and stiff,

rigor mortified muscles.

I'm sorry, do you not understand?

Well, they're embarrassed at a life

drinking the blood from a wasted sack

of skin and breath.


You know what I'm saying.

That's me.


And I used to be so good at endings.

Finishing things, breaking things off.

But I forget, I often never start them

to begin with.