commencing onslaught of shitty love/self-depricating poems.

it's about that time again, believe it's well overdue
to write another hundred shitty poems about how bad it is to be you.
complain loudly about how you wish to stop gnawing at your fingers
or how you break down every time you find a place her scent still lingers
and how all the thoughts of joy which once swam peacefully through your head
were replaced abruptly by dreams of how badly you wish you were dead.
forever seeming to lose grasp on that to which you tightly cling,
always finding the most effective ways to completely ruin everything.
hack haphazardly at the wiring of your brain for it be hastily rearranged
into the form of a cage which may finally keep your melancholy contained.
holding tightly onto the broken heart and wheezing lungs you harbour,
keeping your fragile, brittle bones hidden deep within your armours
and mending the faults along the few that have already cracked.
constantly referring to yourself in the third person to try and lessen the impact
that you'll never be more than a victim of fucking circumstance
because you're far too fucking cowardly to ever take a chance.
this type of sicken behaviour will only ever lead you to being alone.
the mastermind behind the manhattan project of chances fucking blown.

i wish to live a life maybe just slightly less plagued
by thoughts of alchemist spitfire and dull turncoat blades
of martyrs manning palpits, ballistas littering the treelines
and the whetting of steel against my broke, brittle spine
i wish to remain until the warmth ends winter rains
to see spring turn to summer and autumn slowly to winter again
til' i drown in my anxiety and choke on each falsehood that i'm fed
til' all these darkened thoughts are cut sloppily from my head

having a good whine / 1-800-suicide x gravediggaz

let's listen to your narrator track his angst everywhere like usual
delivering his final words set to the theme of a fucking musical
slitting his wrists to mark all pathways previously traveled
and hanged himself at the alamo of his innermost, personal battles
shit man, i'm my wasting my breath fucking speaking
i'm burning every single bridge i can find just to keep myself from freezing
i feel like a fucking disease, but i'm sure i'm only benign
amplifying the genes for anxiety and furthering it down the blood-line
i won't crack under the pressure, by my own intent or by error
i'll take every friendship i have and rip and tear and sever
watch me remove myself from the gene pool before i piss in the waters
trim family tree's branches before they entwine with your daughters
in fact, i'll throw down different poisons to rot away at the roots
and salt the earth to be sure none of the seeds can ever bear fruits
i'll keep beating this dead horse and pull back hard on the reigns
and use sisyphus as a personification of my emotions once again

since kendrick and earl did it, i guess therefore
it's now perfectly acceptable to write about suicide outside of horrorcore
now i'm even more insecure when writing about my inadequacies
the people who now "give a fuck", the same that used to laugh at me
since aussie rappers put their addictions to instrumentals and dropped it
mental health issues trivialized down to a trendy fucking topic
so i'll scribble down a verse in the shape of a malignant magazine
i'll cock my pain and agony and squeeze to end this tragedy
try to dismiss the petty thoughts, go for a drive to clear my head
but every single passing tree is just begging for me to be dead
and camus if you can hear me, i've got the answer to your question
it isn't whether to kill yourself, it's when to succumb to the depression
there isn't even a choice to the matter, there's no free will here
it's only whether you place the gun to the temple or behind the ear
whether to smoke yourself to death or drown in a mixture of whiskey and rum
i want to kill myself in third person because i hate what i've become

listening to too much AJJ and TSSB.

we're just too fucking concerned with all these worldly commodities,
mobile phones and internet and all other pointless technologies.
i'll hide behind a persona that i've so carefully constructed,
to hide obvious signs of my ever impending self-destruction.
i'll hold faux-demons within me, weighed down by balls and chains,
i'll make sure the venom in my heart pumps solely through my veins.
i'll find new ways to help cope with depression and the stress,
up until the point where i've smoked the entire pack of cigarettes.
burnt the last of the flowers gifted from strangers that i've met,
and if i can't get onto any more, i'm bound to get the sweats,
bound to lose my train of thought, bound to fucking shake,
i'm gonna lay in bed the whole damn night so painfully awake.
i'll find several architects to tell me just how flawed the design
and i'll pay a very handsome man to shank me right in my spine.
i'll lie down on the street corner and i'll bleed out by the night
i'll tell every single passer-by that everything's alright.

wurgargble

i carry the devil in my head, in my heart and in my chest,
i hold the devil in my hands and he wants me fucking dead.
hangs storm clouds overhead, blights every ill-attempt,
if god has favoured our undertakings, he wants me fucking dead.

built walls tall around me to keep everyone out
and waited patiently for the doldrums to totally destroy me.
damned to never find any shelter from the rains,
so tired of being the sisyphus for the modernist age.

oh, what an fucking plague you are.

///

"there is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy. all the rest – whether or not the world has three dimensions, whether the mind has nine or twelve categories – comes afterwards. these are games; one must first answer." - Albert Camus.

major bummer / sound is vibration x atmosphere

let's listen to the purging of your narrator's limbic system

as he tries to drive home the point that he's always been the victim

fighting losing battles against insomnia and punctured lungs

every virus of this syndrome dances around the tip of his tongue

mindlessly in rhythm to the off-beat of a war drum

'til his pallet has calloused and sense of taste has grown numb

'til the fingers do tremble and refuse to grip the pen

waves swell from the shifting ground of every 'never, ever again'

'til the microscopic toxins can evade every diagnostic

and the saliva that comes from the mouth has turned fucking caustic

oh no man, i found owen smoking drugs once again

for pathetic attempt at catharsis or alleviation of pain

adding notches to his wrists for every time he's tripped and stumbled

over his words or shortcomings or the rubble of aspirations crumbled

cause the mortar never holds the stone quite so tightly together

can never withstand the frigidness bought by the cold weather

so he fall and he falter exactly like every other time

and arrange every insecurity into a scheme that barely fucking rhymes

that has a subtle hint of truth that runs through every line

but it's always so hidden to the reader, obscured by all my lies

i swear, by now i'm my wasting my breath fucking speaking

i'm burning every bridge i can find to keep myself from freezing

in constant audition, forever fucking fidgeting

i'll never come off as anything more than mildly fucking interesting

here's to another year of eating shit and being betrayed

being force-fed hand grenades while writing more unnamed serenades

i don't think there's much more to me than sleeplessness and anxiety

boundless insecurity, sarcastic wit and non-sobriety

i'm getting old and getting stoned, filling my lungs up with coal

while finding new and inventive ways to slowly chip away at my soul

scrap away at the bones until there's nothing left but pride

which is the only emotion i ever show, the rest are hidden inside

i swear i'm a fucking disease, but i'm sure i'm only benign

amplifying the genes for anxiety and furthering it down the blood-line

i won't crack under the pressure, by my own intent or by error

i'll take every friendship i have and rip and tear and sever

but since i'm always in the wrong, it's alright to fuck me over

i'm the main stepping-stone along your personal journey to closure

i'm a hero with no glory, i'm your biggest hindrance in disguise

i'm sisyphus, forever pushing my avarice towards the fucking skies

help me fade into obscurity, become another silhouette

fade gracefully into the background of hazy memories you'll eventually forget