the rat.

i lick my wounds to infection so that they never recover,
i spread sick and disease while i cannibalise others,
another parasitic plague that breeds with decay.
i guide young lambs to the slaughter that i've lead astray
so i can harvest their wool to keep pulling it over my eyes
and to add on new pieces to my human disguise.
though all my carefully crafted armours cannot hide the fact
or the constant reminders, i'm nothing more than a rat.

i thought i felt your shape but i was wrong, really all i felt was falsely strong. 
i held on tight and closed my eyes, it was dumb. i had no sense of your size.

the last two/three months have been awful. everything fucking sucks.

downward spirals/unbreakable cycles.

i write myself into dead ends and then randomly change the topic of the next line(s). i also don't think i cleanly transition between different metaphors and themes at all. very ham-handed, fists of ham, etc.

please won't someone break down the meaning of the stupid joke for me?

since everyone's laughing, they think it's so funny although i'm pretty sure that it's not really.

it seems i'm becoming a person far too serious; a stupid killjoy of my own creation, 

although i'm not too sure if i've become a puppet to either my age or desensitisation.

i use my head as a shovel to keep digging myself deeper into these downward spirals,

still stuck circling around the same seemingly unbreakable cycles.

if only i could learn to untie the wires before my deadweight pulls tight the slack,

or maybe i could drop the act before my breaking, blistered fingers crack

or they finally break from the strings they've attached to every lie i have written.

how i pen myself as a victim and twist words to frame everyone else as the villain.

when i eventually write my curtain call - it'll be premature; met with no applause.

one big anticlimax, of this i so sure, mostly due to the stringency of australia's gun laws.

no fireworks set to explode from the millions of holes that make up my head,

only some lonely, old man and a hammer there attempting to board them up instead.

i swear i'm slowly succeeding, learning not everything can be compartmentalised,

though it'll probably be far too long before i can muster the courage to face you all and apologise. 

judas.

the turncoats and cowards concealing the vowels that make up their dull blades.
every judas begs for an exchange of their soul for a pittance of silver in trade.
the sickly and bastards sit atop a broken pulpit of serpents and dirty swine.
while these cut-throats and bandits continue the habit of steel-whetting against brittle spine.
each of their sheep will meet sharp teeth, either by that of the wolves or shepard's kin
though their babies will lay to rest nestled in garments tailored neatly from their skin.
guilty souls will wither away to nothing, somehow unable to sustain the drought.
too busy learning to make tinder of the forest before the family tree branches out.

sooky boy.

this is a really bad ajj/pat schneeweis/chris burrow rip-off even though i can neither play guitar nor sing. i'm mostly just posting it so my brain will categorize it as "done".

i've spent at least several years trying to make heads or tails of this shit so i guess i can be called a recovering gambling addict
or maybe a teenage alcoholic with broken bottles of anarchy, though now i only breathe the fumes of noxious human bastardry.
why's the world so thoughtless to force the bend until the break? what's the reason for the nightmares seeping into parts where you're awake?
i'm often using my heart to barter with pretty girls from big cities but i always seem trade it in for shitty cigarettes and self-pity.
don't give up or it's pointless, you better remember you have at stake. remember that dying is for losers and suicide's for fucking fakes.
continue feeding delusions, always keep lying to their face. everyone always moves so quickly at a speed i cannot seem to ever out-pace.
not smoking anymore's for quitters, the whole world will turn to cancer. worship and prayer from sinners for their god never once to answer.
why's any attempt to cease the war machine either outlawed or illegal? can the bourgeois please breakdown for me the legality of good and evil?

you'd think by now i'd have wised up but apparently i'm just too ignorant
or i'd have learnt to read between the lines but too bad that i'm illiterate
or if things would ever add up but i was never that great with my math
or if i could show some emotion but i'm afraid that i'm a psychopath
or i'd have finally found solutions without reverting back to alcohol
or stop failing the few that look up to me because i am bound to fall
or i'd have let myself off the hook but i'm still yet to find an escape
you think by now i could hit the nail on the head but it's bent so out of shape.

sick.

"sick" is should probably be the title for this but i feel like i'm ripping off ceremony.

i'm sick of feeling like a worn down piece of shit - sick of constantly dealing with it.
i'm a little sick of this pointless existence - getting real sick of calling it quits.
i'm getting pretty sick of verbs and nouns - beyond fucking sick of jotting it down.
i'm really, really sick of voices and sounds - kinda very sick of cowards and clowns.
i'm a little sick of Connor Oberst - getting real sick of whoever i'm with.
i'm getting sick of listening to Asking For It - pretty fucking sick of Elliot Smith.
i'm very, very sick of phones and tvs - kinda really sick of technologies.
i'm kinda sick of things being how they have to be - i'm so fucking tired of being me.

i'm rewatching attack on titan and that's pretty cool.

this fucking sucks. big poopybutts. this will get edited and changed a lot.

when i first arrived in this place, i was so sure that i was ready,
i laid down maps to plot my path but couldn't keep the pencil steady.
i'm forever grabbed by callous hands when i'm reaching out for guidance
they take me in and taught me their methods to bolster my over-reliance.
i suppose that i'm fed up with stomach pumps and modern psychiatry,
the significant effort of my best intentions rotted away by anxiety.

each of my fists will stay clenched as the monthly budget of drug addicts,
as tightly as ex-girlfriends did, dragging the blades along their wrists.
i think i've had enough of watching friends die to methamphetamine
and stripping flesh in order feed the gnashing teeth of the war machine.
i've lost count of the amount times i've mistaken comfort for discontent,
i hope i'm there when the penny drops because i need the cash to pay rent.
i'm in over my head, drowning in the failing throes of this fascism
but if the bourgeoisie had their way, i'd be throwing copper at alcoholism.