I’m writing the best shit of all of fucking history. Read it motherfucker.
The sword of anguish awaits the bearer, wearing the face of a murderer. A grimace paints his face with pain, driving pleasure deep within his veins. Let it pierce me, bring it deep within, forgive me Father for I have sinned Let this world bother me no longer, no longer this world shall I wander.
Stumbles like a drunken sailor, sings like the son of a siren Slinking snake in his low, strikes the spider in his high What is he looking for?
Follow the path deep into the forest Child of mine, you have always known this tale Watch it unfold terrified and exhilarated Watch yourself follow the path deep into the forest
Unable to stop yourself and unwilling to try Waiting for the ending to happen to you
I don’t need a vacation. I need a job.
You should stop smoking. It’s gonna kill you. Isn’t that an affirmation of life? Trying to kill yourself? I don’t know. But you should stop, I don’t wanna die getting high off your fumes Sigh Whatever dipshit.
Anger drives me. My brain is the cockpit and my amygdala the wheel, tongue dropping bombs all over society, my body speaking in the universal language of hate. You don’t have to hear my words to feel the meaning smack you in the face.
Am I a poet? I don’t want to be a poet. Nevertheless, the words come from– no, spew from my brain through my mouth and my fingers, spilling forth from my intestines all twisted like your disgust and feelings of disgust and my disgust with your disgust. I like that word. Do you feel like throwing up? Maybe when I mention it, it happens, like pissing and yawning. I’d like that. I would. But it makes things complicated. Can you imagine, any time you write something, some dumbass takes it literally? What a f*cking nightmare. Fiction would be dead for good if some idiot took the ideas of another world and put it in this one, or invented some newshit to screw up the minds of children and fools and wound up with random school shootings and suicide and socialist regimes. Thank God for fiction, and the freedom to fornicate. Amen.
I don’t want to be a poet, because it means I care too much. Hitler wanted to be a poet. Marx wanted to be a poet. They were poets, and they knew it. They made poetry with bullets and blood and pain, and the whole world became their canvas. Stop caring. Stop caring. Stop caring. You save lives that way. Stop caring about your goddamn life so I can live mine you selfish bastard, I’ve stopped living mine for yours!!! Not my fault I’m an idiot!
Let’s talk (LIE) about me. My mother died in a car accident, and my dad lied all the time. He used to beat me with his belt for lying, and I got back at him with my attitude and my tongue. Beat me harder daddy hahahahahaaaahahahahaahahaaahahahHAHHAHAHAHAAAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAHHAHAHAHAHHAHA. YOu can’t touch this bitch, you can’t touch me. I’m untouchable in my safe place, my heaven in my mind where my mother strokes my hair and whispers into my ear that she loves me and she’s proud of me andn how beautifully I write and my wonderful stories even if they aren’t original but nothings original anymore and my heaven falls into shit and decay no longer golden but wonderful and black and I sit there fuming staring at the wall until my dad comes into the basement and sits with me and is very quiet and I hear him cry because he’s been here for years in the basement of hell waiting for me to come down with him but I don’t want to I don’t want to be here I don’t want to be in this house at all so I walk into the street and it is raining on my suitcase and it is soaked but I have learned not to care for the rain. I heard once that it doesn’t matter whether you hide from the rain or embrace it, you still get wet. Better to embrace it than to be afraid of it.
My heaven is made of gold and ignorance. Its foundations are corrupted by logic, but as long as you believe in them, they could be made of steel. It’s the good path, as long as you’re good, but if you betray it you’ll be drinking gasoline champagne for the rest of your time there waiting for it all to end and realizing you wasted your life.
My hell is made of my mind. I fell through the floor the second I doubted, and I never looked back. That’s a lie, but I’ve moved on anyways. People sit here and fume in their hate of everything for making them fall from heaven, even hating themselves for being in heaven and hating heaven for them being in it. They tell themselves Heaven was never real, and now we’re free to do whatever we want. But it doesn’t change the fact that they’re prisoners in their own logic and learning and “freedom.” Here they wait for all eternity, or so they believe.
But what they don’t know is that there’s a back door hidden in the corner for those who look, and its name is hope. It’s a long climb up the ladder, and it’s dark and shadowy and sometimes you don’t know whether you’re going up or down or sideways, but someday you reach the top. And you open the hatch, and step out of that dark tunnel, and you look around and realize where you are.
You’re right where you’ve always been, and you breathe the fresh air that’s never tasted so good. You made it, where most people never go, you went beyond the furthest mountains and the darkest shadows and the deepest pits, and all the shitty people and all the mishaps of life, to be where you are right now. And you realize this. And you smile.