i miss the contagious side of your shimmering effervescence,
and how the world never could seem damage your radiant inner essence.
how you managed to grow flowers even through the clay and salt,
there isn't a single thing about you that could be considered as a fault.
i'm trying hard to demonstrate all the emotion i don't often show,
you still elicit the same reactions than those from ten or so years ago.
the ghost of your magnificence still steps uncaringly through my head
haunting me one thousand times worse than any of my dead.
i really wish to hold your hand and fully uproot my whole life
and make all my mistakes and regrets take the form of a knife
that i will use to fight my way out of the hole in which i cower.
using all your sweet words to stop myself from turning sour.
the gems of aquamarine that you've passed off as eyes,
wash over me more effectively than any of your dyes
now I'm left trying to purge these somber thoughts from my head
of the only body i ever want to line the sheets of my bed.
turning away from the closed-minded arrogance i constantly display,
evicting all the demons to make a place for you to lay.
want to watch your hands to your hips while you debate clothes for the weather,
to see you dress for cold again and then realise it's an error.
i miss humid days with train delays and spending time with you.
i miss the feeling of every time i've ever managed to be close to you.
i love how you passed me every crucial thing except for the goddamned lighter
and how you've always rivaled me as a professional nail-biter.
being close to you is something i'd really like to work towards
so i can hear the tiny musician inside your chest bowing your vocal cords
to beckon me out of the deep, deep hole to which i withdrew
and i can find a place to feel at home and hopefully, so can you.

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.