06.10.04: New design. Got rid of the art and tape trading sections since I don't really trade
anymore. Lots of new poetry.
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"Vulgarity in Stream of Consciousness"
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candle wax drips like melting flesh down the handle of a kitchen knife, its blade reflecting blue skies and sunshine and dripping blood and old paint smells like turpentine. curled in a corner with four years of bloodstained tears and cold tile sticks to bare feet in fear. i never believed i would feel like this again, hands are shaking, fingertips in pain. matches with blackened ends lie strewn about the room. i can smell smack pumping through his veins. pale blue light permeates his eyes and pierce. they're blinding. help me. i'm drowning. stop thinking, rivers flowing past go where hate beauty contorted swirl alone. i never want to feel this alone again. yearning for touch. living flesh, broken heart again. again. blood smells like aluminum foil, metallic taste on my tongue. alone, screaming help me. we hold ourselves at arms length from one another always never too close i'm scared to break out. i'm scared of everything. but i need to or else. we all need to. going to suffocate. too easy to convince myself i'm going to suck it up tomorrow and then i just sit around and waste it all. alone. alone in my room. alone under the stars, alone. the sunsets look greyer through the fog of disillusionment and colors that soft and beautiful should never be able to stab that sharp through hearts like daggers. alone. we together are alone. i'm scared that no one will ever be totally okay. how do you define love on a page with a pen? chaos is love. while following, fingerpainting. hell. hellp. grew in a minute. i might come up with a solution. i miss being able to feel okay. after i convinced myself that i could think my way through things. lobotomy. i hate it. consciousness is emptiness. meaning? it's an illusion like everything else both good and bad if you can even define things in so simplistic terms. at first it seems there's hope in ephemeral beauty (there's no other kind of beauty) but it means that that hope is ephemeral too. angels wings strewn about the room, burning feathers, smoke inhahlation. i can't think. do you remember that poem Porphyria's Lover? Eternal. But that's a lie. Flesh decays like everything else even if the feeling stops and the emotions fade. flesh decays. and in the end it's nothing. you have a corpse on a couch and then what? there's no blood running through the veins and you're fucking the dead, but what's the difference, anyway? the dead, the dog, carrion in phallic shape? we're all walking around with dead souls anyway. i just want to feel okay. i wonder if anyone ever does or is there always that feeling even when it's good that it might go away which negates everything, but you know it's happening whether you choose to believe it or not. or if you don't believe it will it happen? would my flesh decay if i believed it didn't? what is this fucking HATE i'm feeling? hate for self, for others, for my brain which is the source of these feelings, for my fucking tube of toothpaste in the morning. what is sex? fucking at three in the afternoon bodies joined, minds out the window, OUR UNION WAS ALWAYS SEPARATED BY MORE THAN LATEX. fuck you. i forgot how and why i ever fell in love with you if i was actually even loved you at all. acid frying your brain, and tasting ourselves in each other's mouth when we kissed, remember? what's the difference between fucking and cutting my wrists? someone along the line convinced us this was love, this is love, this is lust.. love. and that cutting was hate.. but is love really skin moistened by sweat, cum, what's the difference anymore? this is love they told me, this is love. it's so disheartening when inside, this is love... violation this is love. this is lust, separate entities, they LIED. this isn't love. it's societal rape. there is no difference between fucking and a heroin addiction, it's all injection. i remember when the image of your face in my mind turned into the one before you. yeah it's all like fuck em and leave em. but he stuck around for two years. but for all the difference it makes it could've been two weeks cos it DOESN'T FUCKING MATTER ANYMORE. he broke me, and i believed he made me, mind control FUCK HIM. remember the time when i was passed out on the floor?! yeah that was REALLY COOL. i wanna peel back his skin and pour hydrochloric acid over his body and laugh as all his fucking whores all run away. 'yeah she's a good lay,' THIS IS FUCKING RAPE. took me eight years to figure out why i have nightmares and get nervous to the point of being sick around boys. half my life at that point. and my head spins and my heart feels blackened, crisped around the edges, sitting waiting for someone to reach into my chest cavity and eat it, rotting human flesh. we are all caricatures of ourselves. and i simply don't like it anymore.
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