last 5 titles [updated 3.31.16]

i’ve scrapped my last five writings, with the opening sentences starting with,
its hell in this darkness” “dearly departed, please be here for my heart
the other three were as stark “i hate being alive
don’t seem to remember, one rubric:  ‘demons inside“.
life is overrated. diluted with wine
my tears empower me. tailspin fusion designed
to reinforce and devour these current sutures. i try
irritated.  i could feel the torque overpowering madness
the endless script. scour for breadth in callousness.
out of breath on land, but at peace underwater
no feelings, this author. reveals at the end of the chapter
that he doctored/remastered his slivers of sonder
its physical misconduct. picture cigarette soft burn
sepia softer, silky seeping…. mossberg
you’re examining my life on repeat
and it’s slightly appeasing to people reading
each piece to critique the mystique i deliver each weekend- or month, or year.
its weird. i can’t survey time-frames in increment values
separating migraines from lachrymation is sad too
just script what i have when my souls in a vacuum.
red dwarf fighting a black-hole ready to eat me
dissect the inside of my pen, where ash grows tethered beneath
the mass knows, the malice that backhands this skeleton species
youll find remnants of relic of this deeply defined, delicate e.t.
a cavalier lifestyle, the atmosphere. where sadness smears nice smiles
in half a year, went from happy tears to having fear light fires
a tower with a floor unbolted. i’m a boatmen with no course. no joke.
thousand waves, found their way. like an omen or horoscope.
had the wind knocked out of its sails, with winds brought up from hell.
sing by myself and it sounds beautiful; help
when i’m around super sopranos i can’t sing all that well.
an imperfect mesh of nervousness that curls from my snarling lips
like a surge of restlessness that stems from the furl of depression.
defensive. protective. self deprecation, or self preservation?
dedicated a distaste for eternity, and to being enigmatic
if you ain’t honest with yourself who can you expect to feed you a truth
that dismantles your courage. without feelings of soothing
i see a lighthouse that i’ll never reach, so i kiss my lantern with fervor
feel the SURGE, of A BURNING sun when you fuck with the solar flares
or don’t- my souls ensnared. most likely tell you that i don’t care.
touch paintings of fuel like braille i consume
my muse – it entails within rules of varying doom.
feed off energy that doesnt exist in a physical sense
even spiritually and, its progression is hasty.
correct me if im wrong but i think that’s the start of an inherently crazy
apparently brazen human being, with narratives caved in.
communicate with airwaves,  that illuminate the way
layed in a zany loop of naysayers. that feed them daily soup to trailblaze
tied up in this phalanx suit of grayness, where hatred blooms the helmet
doesnt have a rhyme or reason for simple explanation
that in theory is, relevant to his seering insaneness.
i dont fucking get why im like this,
i accept all and any likeness to help me on this quest. or this crisis
.
i carry the heads of lions on my belt. and then it’s goodbye

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