Backwards

I never write when I am happy. If you want call it happy, however it may just be content. It is very rare that happiness comes to boiling point were you overflow with emotion and desperately desire to express it upon a page. I remember feeling like that before, and writing beautiful ideas and thoughts down on a page, but lately my happiness is rarely that elevated and I am preparing for the next moment, the one that comes after. I am preparing for the moment when the dark emotions come back and it is those I need to spew upon a page.
Right now however, I am happy, there is stillness, everything floats above the shit and just rests breathing in the fresh air. In the back of my mind there is still the stench though, and the fear of falling down again. I was once so happy I felt like my happiness was untouchable and that it came from a world that was incapable of being tainted by the shit of this one, but now to my horror this world moved in on my perfect one, and I have no idea how to get back to what it was before.

Cold

The world does not have time for happy, kind, love, compassion. There are time limits on these things, the necessity to draw back to death, fear, insecurity, anger, hate, impatience, destroys rainbows and green grass and clear waters. Good things, happy things, they are like bastards, illegitimate, lies, no merit can be found in “good” and “happy.” There is no truth in happy, sorrow, anger...that is where you find truth.
This world is black and gray, colors are illusions, escapes from reality to stare at for those moments when the desire is for life to just end. Red is a beautiful lie, love, roses, romance, but those are illegitimate, lies, blood....thats what real, thats what is truth, red is blood, death, pain, dark.
What about green? Grass, trees, apples, eyes, green is fraud, just like blue, and purple and yellow. The world screams for sorrow, anger, fear, lust, hate, these are what is true.
I don’t walk around and see beauty, I walk around and see pointless, happiness is death. I would like to tell them they are killing themselves, if they try to be happy their souls will turn black with the disappointment of its lie. If you let yourself love you might as well place your head on a chopping block, it will gut you, rip you to tiny pieces and no matter how angry and bitter you get...you will still cry and hate yourself for every tear that falls to the ground. Your sorry soft heart should be growing thinker, harder, slowly closing, but instead you learn to lie. Hope is death but you still cannot rip it out, it refuses to leave, you cannot kill it, it rots away at what is left of your pathetic existence.
I hate what I see in the mirror, there is nothing lovely about her, she is weak, dark and meaningless. Her poor sleeping beauty heart cries to be red, green, blue. Why wont she just die, instead she clings to life lying in a frozen meadow of sorrow. Maybe once she forgets what summer is like, what warmth and red are she will let go and leave me alone. Stop begging for someone to show her love, adoration, and delight in her. Her life hurts me, I hate her tears.

Words

Everything is stale, gray and washed out
There is no sounds but dull tones of meaningless voices
I am in a purgatory of stillness
Bound by forces embedded in my being

Everything is pointless
Anything good or beautiful is destroyed
Disgusting delight is found in the destruction of beauty
Or, beauty does not exist, it is a lie

Love is an executioner

Brink of Sleep

Tired.
Thoughts bounce off bones.
My skull feels like fog.

Images pass across my sight.
The memory of sensations rise like waves from my skin.
Everything is so mixed, random, rational does not exist here.

Primitive.
My mind lingers on hardness filling my soft flesh.
Of breath, moans, hands, lips.
Its like sustenance to my soul.

Fog again...
Images of fire.
Heat caresses my skin.
Its cold in here.

Heavy eyes....

Awaken

I woke up.
On Fire.
The Dream had shattered.
Self loathing, inadequacy.

Lovely?
What does that even mean?
Pools of self doubt and streams of insecurity.
Where is my identity?

I gave myself away.
No questions asked, filled with naivety.
My soft skin is enraged with the need to be thicker.

My being is filled, interwoven, entwined, laced.
Can’t protect from what is already inside.
Tears as it pulls and tugs.
Like barbered wire being drawn from by bones.

So much self loathing.
My sea must be perfect.
So much confusion, it must be me.

Light.
Seeps through the cracks in blinding bursts.
Strands of a misty dream.
Pieces of warmth that hinder the cold doubt.