my chest is growing tighter.

cut out my tongue, it has become useless anyway,
i stayed up for hours talking, i could see the dawn break.
over the horizon my words flew, but they must've gotten lost on the way.
now i sit here writing, poems and songs about things that would never last
and things that i no longer want to last.
endurance has faded,
the mortar once laid, has now broke and split.
i can see light ahead, dancing with the thunder
and they're strafing to the right,
i am inclined to follow.
my chest is growing tighter.

fuck.

i'm cynical because every encounter
and every action taken out against me
has shaped me thus.
every betrayal and every insult -
whatever, fuck this. i'm done.

religious gesture #2

i don't think anyone will ever understand how much i hate this man and every disgusting, false word that leaves his mouth. i would gladly blind him, he may as well be blind anyway because he sure does fucking sound it.
fred phelps is the devil, if there is such a thing.

escape.

i smoke in chains to link my thoughts -
if not coherent, at least they're strung together.
an elaborate story, bordering upon absence,
words as thin as air upon hallow pages.
nothing can replace the ecstasy of memories,
there exists no placebos, my mind is beyond dead.
sweet methadone drip.
lull me to sleep,
lull me to sleep.

sweet little child, run away from your fear
but expect no rest, there exists no escape.
unless through a hole in your head,
which you've crafted yourself -
to escape from your memories.
to escape your enemies,
to escape your failures,
to escape yourself.
i hope when you fall, you can catch a halo
when you fall through the hole you've made in your head -
to escape your memories,
to escape your enemies,
to escape your failures,
to escape yourself.