I place my head upon the desk,
And wish that a pile of bricks would collapse,
For underneath such dire distress,
Freedom awaits amidst the plush of spurting blood.
I cut and tear at the flesh beneath my eyes,
Seeing reddened tears run profusely down my face,
My mouth turns upwards in a smile,
For I finally have gained relief at the visualization of my own degradation.
The voices in my head are screaming,
A conflicting symphony of instruments,
Howling and shrieking whilst my dark dreaming,
Is the true burden I bear upon my pitiful shoulders.
Pointed bones protrude from skin,
With maggots pouring from my mouth,
I excrete the sins from within,
To prevent them from devouring my soul in the night.
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My Thoughts on the World and My Writing
The content of this journal can range from passing thoughts in the style of stream of conciousness to intense stories, poetries, and prose.
Guardian of Agape
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