Half Eaten Chocolate BeLoved Mixed With Bitter Sweet Love Stationed Right Next to Visceral Visual Pornography

The notes and chords strike down right now, soaring melodies fluent in every language but the one I can use right now.

Words simply defy gravity as I beg to steal some sense of mind, of peace about everything.

You know that idea that everything will be okay.

That despite growing trepidation everything will be okay.

It seems like religion is good for one thing and that one thing is that if you embrace it you are readying yourself for impact. You are trying to see reality head on and then let yourself just crash full on unto the ground.

Shattering like a bottle of aged wine, letting the purplish aged flavor splash across the sand, making awkward lines from the shards of glass as the ground drinks up every last sin.

It is this funny sense of vertigo, loosing sense of who you are and just why the hell you are even there in the first place; letting your hair down and kicking your shoes off just long enough to realize you are out of mind, out of place and the fact you were in the wrong neighborhood to begin with.

It's a trip, trip in your mind and through it.
Realizing the water is shallower that it looks
that looks are everything and you are what I mistook
when I took a look to look outside
and try and find beauty.
Instead I found a shallow pond
and not my ocean.
My soul used to ache for you
and now it is simply repulsed.
I would make outlines of my sins in blood
just to see you smile.
Now I want it back.
My time, my smiles, my heart and my blood.
Every wasted breath, every broken promise
and every half truth that gave birth to a lie.

I'm not asking for much,
really,
just a little bit of everything
and not much else.
Just a bit of sanctity
in a world of indulgence.
A little bit of purity
when every thought
is burning lust through that last.
A little bit of this
and a little bit of that
all that is good
and a little bit worst.
Just a tiny bit of pain.
Little bit burning
and a whole lot worse.

I can't give you anything more than this half formed lies that I pretend to believe. Your pictures are beauty that makes me cry, your skin is perfect just like the lies you wear on your shoulders like that lace you hold onto so dear.

I want to say I understand life but the more I see, the more I feel, the more I experince it all leaves me more unraveled than the last. It's like that pale lace dress, just starting to unravel; unlacing the lace really in a sad sort of way.

Some sort of way that makes me as nauseated as only real life can.

Humans cannot bear too much reality, much like T.S. Elliot said and I myself have endured more of its bitter sting than I can scarcely comprehend.

I feel the building tension in my throat as I brace to scream.

I've grown so sick of this world and this retched revolving vile procession. I feel the bible build and I want to vomit out all this pain, this growing resentment I feel. The shame of me being jealous of this trash you love to call your God, this jade statue that can't even hear your useless pining.

Hearing every useless scream that is never said as it rings in my ears, this useless bitter and trite conversation I have with myself every single night.

Why do i run circles in these squares?

Isn't it about I anyway?

As the music continues to hum with static hisses and popping screams across my electrical synapses causing my soul to relate in ways I don't even understand, maybe even while I still have your attention at this very moment I can remmeber just how slutty my own spiritual walk is while I am growing so fond of pointing fingers and throwing jagged stones.

I love seeing the blood of the guilty spilled so I think mine would be a good addition, right?

I mean, every time I see a good idea I love to be enamored with it, fawn over it and try to supplant the desires you placed in my heart at the beginning of this long night of dark pain.

I try in vain, I try so damn hard to forget you. I lay naked on this mixture of gravel and pavement and I just pull myself forward and let the jagged edges just rip into every last part of my body, letting blood just spill over onto the ground and fill in the cracks making such a pretty pretty petty pattern on the ground for you to see.

My religion, my spiritual endeavors of selfish self indulgent self assured fiction that I love to paint all over myself.



The hours bleed by into moments separated by segments of serrated edges.
Exasperatingly enough time stand stills every time I stare at the clock, not even the second hand is nice enough to click aaway for me.

But the moment I slow down long enough to realize things are not about me the time rips through me in ways I can't even pretend to understand and you know, oh God you know the pain it rips forward out of the soul and paints all over the walls and the floor and the ceiling. All of this bitter pain of ideas lost, lusted over and bought again and again for a petty little price you couldn't have sold me on if you tried, just because I wanted it for free.