All The Wrong Topics dot com

a slit wrist for good luck.

depress and you will die for sure, and if you do not believe me, enjoy the rotting process occurring before your very eyes. you look down, and there you are, with scabs on your arms from the drugs you refuse to stop taking because of the peace you can buy on them. you look at you hands, and realize that you have been in this state in many days past. the haze has parted revealing the truth that you have eluded for too long. you replace your divine essence with the chemicals ripe with quantified good and bad times that you find it easy to deal with. that is until now, at your lowest, and begging for mercy. you tell your tale with as few words as possible to make the cut cleaner yet. the dead stop talking when they begin to see the truth of the matter. the razor chants for the blood, and the sights it has only dreamed of. the movies pictured in the mind’s eye of the suicidal fop with lust for bloody repentance, the bathtub filled with blood and water, but the living lived on uncaring of freedom or error in the eyes of the masses. where the hindered thoughts become subsistence is where this self-hatred breeds into the infinite dwelling in corporeal stance and stride. the daylight vampires suck the wounds of the grieving, but refuse to seek the solace common to those of true grief. the subjective truth lies buried now six feet under where the worms writhe in silent earth. what do you care, however, for this predicament that you have lead yourself towards? the sequence seems to have been a solid push into the heavenly plateau through these hellish proofs of existence. at least, that was always the hope for this bleeding heart as the emotions grow weary. heavily worn with time and patience to tread through the rough waters that breathing regularly requires of us all. thick cries for painful release into the void has brought temporary peace for some, but has left the others questioning their own necessary words.

Thanks, khet.