Social Confessional

gallows_by_hornedquad-d5nby0v

I may have sinned, but I won’t ask your forgiveness.
The truth is I’ve only tried to emulate you,
Acting without scruples in your manner,
But I still stand in awe of you:
How you blaze a trail of ruin,
Leaving flowers to wither and vegetation to rot.
You don’t possess a conscience;
Perhaps that’s why I feel so good
When I slander your name across the universe.
Never before have I sought vengeance,
But I confess now that every wound I inflict—
Stealing what you hold most dear—
Brings a sickening satisfaction to my mind,
And when those thoughts lull me to sleep
They are the best sleeps I ever know.

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Wilted

dead_flower_by_ninsight-d301wab

You are no flower—
Not one worth putting in a vase, anyway.
You’ve wilted away in what should be your prime,
Tearing your petals off,
Depriving yourself of nourishment,
And living in perpetual shadow.
It’s no wonder you can’t be alone with your thoughts
Without bending your mind until it snaps;
But if you can’t live with yourself,
No one else will be able to live with you, either.

Frankly, My Dear

Burned_out_candle

I’ve tried so hard to hate you,
But every time I muster a mote of loathing
Or contrive the basest slander against your character,
My tongue ties into knots or I stumble;
And I know that for all my wishing,
I could never bring myself to defame you,
Though it would be so much easier if I could.
You would have me fixate on the profane
To prove you’re worthless
(Maybe you think it would be easier that way),
But my eyes have stripped away the horrors
Your acts of depression, revenge, or apathy have wrought.
That’s not who you are—
I refuse to believe that—
No matter what they tell you;
They’re dead wrong, but they wouldn’t know,
Because those who don’t look beyond flesh
Have no compassion for others.
You’re the kind of person I would die for,
But to be honest I’d much rather live for you,
Stand by your side to help you up when you misstep,
And you could do the same for me.
But since I sit here, deprived of your glory,
I wring my heart like a wet cloth
To squeeze a drip of hatred,
And always come up short.
It’s just that your sins are trivial in light of your grace,
And I couldn’t care less how high they stack;
They won’t matter when we’re dead, anyway.

These Obliterated Affairs

City ruins

I’ve done it again:
Set everything around me to ruin.
With the gentlest of touches
I have collapsed empires,
Toppled monuments,
And razed the capitals
That govern my id;
I have ruptured the dams
That hold this deluge at bay
So these tears can flow unhindered,
Wash away the rubble from these obliterated affairs
And, perhaps one day, begin this earth anew . . .
At least that’s what I tell myself
So I may retain the slightest agency,
When the truth is I’m not responsible for any of it;
This world of ruin in which I dwell,
Is something that happened to me,
Not because of me,
So how dare you tell me to stay on my feet,
To keep fighting and never surrender,
When there’s grass so much greener elsewhere
And I have wings to fly away on?

The Dread of Ye

Dirty mirror

I hate this feeling:
The dread—
This fucking dread—
Knowing the anguish to come
Now that this void I tried so hard to fill—
That was filled with your goddamn voice—
Is a void once more.
The ennui is so real,
And I abhor it so much,
I find myself raking at my skin
Just for a moment’s reprieve.
I’ve become a masochist,
Delighting in my own torture
As I stand in a room face-to-face
With the one face I never wanted to see again;
But my faith in myself is shaken—
Motherfucker, you moved me when no one else could—
And now I treat this void as a vat:
I pour anything and everything I can into it,
Even knowing most of it is poison,
And with each drop I become less myself
And more what I always saw in that filthy mirror.
I know they see it, too:
All those eyes on the street.
Their whispers somehow reach my ears,
As loud as jet engines that block out all else,
So I’m forced to stand trial,
Listening to all their ridicule;
And I, only ever asking how I fell this far,
While recognizing the one strand of hope in my life—
Yes, I’m talking about your goddamn voice again—
Is now broken, never to be repaired.

Immaculate

Iridescent black hole

What the hell could I say to you
That would illustrate the basest feeling
I hold in your regard?
I try to map out the perfect explanation,
Fit all the pieces together to make a whole
That is beautiful and moving,
Like a sweeping score that crescendos
Until the emotive climax that sends you to tears;
But every time I dare to utter a word,
The breath escapes my lungs
And I choke,
As though my subconscious recognizes
That to speak of you so inadequately
Is sheer sacrilege,
Because you are beyond labeling or possessing.
The immaculacy of your bravura
Devolves me into a nervous fit—
Worse each time than before—
For you are worthy of nothing less than unadulterated pleasure
And gifts even a monarch wouldn’t inherit;
But for all my posturing,
I am not the embodiment of grace or sanctity you are merited,
And to be anything less is to be undeserving of your majesty.

Black Magick and Condemnations

Fury

I know your dirty little secret,
If it can even be called that,
Since you’re a piss-poor liar—
Or you just didn’t try to hide it.
And I don’t know what’s more insulting:
The act itself;
Or the implication of my stupidity,
As though I would sit with a sewn mouth
And open legs,
Acting as a husk for you to fuck
Whenever your extracurriculars grow stale,
And being the archetype of your normalcy,
The trophy of your Christian life.
But I’m not your American Dream,
Your something old
In between your somethings new,
Your somethings borrowed,
And I sure as hell won’t let you
Beat my soul into your something blue.
You’ve already taken more than you deserve,
So I won’t even give you what you’re owed;
Instead, I’ll just immortalize you
In words you can’t erase,
In sentiments you can’t vanquish,
And enchantments you can’t dispel;
My justice will be exacted
In black magick and condemnation,
And you will realize all too late
That you are accursed, exiled as you are
From the presence of God.

The Bride Even the Devil Divorced

black_eyes_by_kkcav-d3m9gcj

There is nothing sexy about your rage—
The infernal vengeance
You would reap upon those who have wronged you,
Borne you into this world,
Or stood in your presence
Instead of kneeling before your majesty;
So excuse me if I recuse myself
From your infallible presence
Or shiver when your skin meets mine.
I do not require your pardon
And do not crave your presence,
Radiating arrogance with each step,
Every flinch, every syllable spoken,
Causing me to retch my heart out
Whenever I have to inhale your noxious aura.
Your touch is like a snake bite,
The venom entering my bloodstream like a virus
And working its way to my heart;
Even worse when you try to fuck me—
The moments where I’d sooner die,
Except I would die in your arms,
And that is a fate worse than hell.

Hyddeous

grain shadow

I crave destruction;
It’s not some romanticized fiction
Or noble venture brimming with sentiment.
Because of everything that’s conspired against me—
Governments, family, a chastised world—
I pine for the end.
Within this sanctuary I have etched
There exists no morality,
Only a rage beget by injustice;
And on this altar of ire
I sacrifice in no one’s name,
Because sacrifice—
The artistic method of suffering—
Needs no purpose beyond its own existence.
With that hideous strength I wield,
Surprising even to myself,
I cast dominion over the puerile
And advance my personal army
Until grass turns to dirt under boot.
Even should there be no nation left to conquer
I will wage war still,
Whether upon myself or the gods above,
To prove my own liberation
From all but bloodlust,
A carnal craving for penance,
An unyielding covet for destruction.

Groom of Eris

Death skeleton

“This isn’t real,” the voice says,
Whispering through the ether of darkness:
A black void that occupies my mind.
It is without form this voice speaks,
No consciousness but my own
To sustain its malevolence,
Subsisting entirely on my paranoia
Because I don’t know how to exist
Free of the anxiety born from my insecurity.
Would I slay this love before it even flourishes
Because of the ramblings of a nonexistent madman?
Reality has offered nothing but assurance
And a smile now etched into my memory,
But I would lay waste to it within the fabrication
Of the personal hell that resides inside my mental bastille,
And shout aspersions into the vacuum of space
To mollify the injustice of this war I wage
On the innocents I intend to sacrifice
To this god of death and despair
Who rules my perverse dominion with a pale hand.
While in rationality I accept
Every word I hear is insanity—
A plea from a deity losing his power—
I still listen when he says, “This will never last.”
And god help me, I’m beginning to believe it.