I'm so tired of being in pain, I'm sick of it.
Sick of the pain, sick of hearing how much better I have it.
Yeah it could be worse and I will not be surprised when it gets worse but now, right now I am tired of all of this. Tired of the confusion and the pain.
It is not fun.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Portraits in Red
I just so badly long for the words that I need to tell you, so you might know how much I hate you, how the pain is simply searing as it courses through my veins. I lack the vernacular to just simply express my distaste of you.
Vocal inflections and screams can never give justice to the absolute disgust your presence brings, nor can it give account for the revolting taste in my mouth at the merest mention of your name.
It can't be hate because hate would mean I have loved.
It is more bare, more visceral.
Your existence pains me beyond anyone rational comprehension.
There is no separating the two of us, the duality of existing as one in two parts and two dwelling in one.
We share the same smirk and a gaze in the mirror is just a look out another window.
Everything I ever pretended to love was just so I could learn properly how to hate. Every lie spoke through warmly smiling lips was preparation so I might recognize you. The basis of my life is this moment of recognition of a reconditioning.
The very blood that runs inside of you is nothing short of cursed, a corrosive liquid
prolonging the life of one who understands nothing but the wicked. A disgusting waste of organic material that is simply acting as a human life.
I can't be this person you wanted. You run these chemicals and inflame my neurological passages with impulses to ravage life as thought it were nothing more then my playground. That nothing in life exists apart from my control and my desires.
The thing I hate most is this bitter taste. This chalky, bitter and repulsive taste of sin. Nothing is satisfying, everything is disgusting because it is nothing more then a mixture of organic trash that is slowly rotting and coming apart. The smell is nauseating and the end is just the same, this impossibly horrific death of thought, death of emotions and death of self.
None of these lies can serve to compel me to serve you.
The created must have a creator, just because you claim ownership does not mean you are equipped to handle anything, much less the task of loving on so as selfishly disgusting as yourself.
Nothing is a mantra you can sing and clutch to. Nothing is all that you possess and own in the most intimate of ways. This impossible contradiction, this juxtaposition of carnal thought mixed with spiritual undertones. These relentlessly wild thoughts demanding religious overtones.
Symphonic in its mating calls and dying screams. Contradictory, impulsive and the sum mass of all other lies. A defining role to be played.
Embellishment, nothing more and nothing less.
The very sight of you makes me so sick.
Vocal inflections and screams can never give justice to the absolute disgust your presence brings, nor can it give account for the revolting taste in my mouth at the merest mention of your name.
It can't be hate because hate would mean I have loved.
It is more bare, more visceral.
Your existence pains me beyond anyone rational comprehension.
There is no separating the two of us, the duality of existing as one in two parts and two dwelling in one.
We share the same smirk and a gaze in the mirror is just a look out another window.
Everything I ever pretended to love was just so I could learn properly how to hate. Every lie spoke through warmly smiling lips was preparation so I might recognize you. The basis of my life is this moment of recognition of a reconditioning.
The very blood that runs inside of you is nothing short of cursed, a corrosive liquid
prolonging the life of one who understands nothing but the wicked. A disgusting waste of organic material that is simply acting as a human life.
I can't be this person you wanted. You run these chemicals and inflame my neurological passages with impulses to ravage life as thought it were nothing more then my playground. That nothing in life exists apart from my control and my desires.
The thing I hate most is this bitter taste. This chalky, bitter and repulsive taste of sin. Nothing is satisfying, everything is disgusting because it is nothing more then a mixture of organic trash that is slowly rotting and coming apart. The smell is nauseating and the end is just the same, this impossibly horrific death of thought, death of emotions and death of self.
None of these lies can serve to compel me to serve you.
The created must have a creator, just because you claim ownership does not mean you are equipped to handle anything, much less the task of loving on so as selfishly disgusting as yourself.
Nothing is a mantra you can sing and clutch to. Nothing is all that you possess and own in the most intimate of ways. This impossible contradiction, this juxtaposition of carnal thought mixed with spiritual undertones. These relentlessly wild thoughts demanding religious overtones.
Symphonic in its mating calls and dying screams. Contradictory, impulsive and the sum mass of all other lies. A defining role to be played.
Embellishment, nothing more and nothing less.
The very sight of you makes me so sick.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
