Unfiltered, non poetic and expletive ridden… It ain’t pretty ma

I had wings once, big fuck of fluffy wings and it felt good
Fly a friggin mile from anything looking to kill me and sing fucking angelic chiors of happy shit
Now I’m a depressive deep hole of hell that needs something venomous to kill the poison in my veins
This ain’t the pretty picture life painted in the rosy cheeks years
There were fucking flowers and stuff, dancing fairies and merry old elves braking out soda pop
The fairies now dance on tables as the elves get pissed
What the….
I looked for the ladder out of this crap, but all I got was a tin star medal for surviving and a crap salary
Even the vodka becomes hollow as the glass that shoots happy happy venom in me to make things less painful
I fucking hate the sun, all the smiley types holding hands and playing perfect
I’m black clad misery with a razor to my wrists and a rope around my neck, feeling nobody cares
Hiding this emotional maelstrom from the ones who do care
I earn money to be trapped in lonely hell, and people want me to work more, so I can be unhappier?
Fuck you, I think, looking all bright eyed and only jokingly sucicidal for the world
State, mess, crap pile, the average thought train as I get rail roaded
Can’t even sample happy vibes before conclusive doubt and fear tell me everyone hates me, you just humiliated yourself….
That’s what I tell myself to level out? Fuck!
Three bottles of vodka staring me down and I’m stone cold bloody sober
I’m still alive?
Joke, big f off laugh by life

I’d jump off the train but they sucicide proofed the windows!
Did they know I was coming

Remind me where the sleeping pills are, I think it’s best I don’t wake up for a bit
If my own sucicidal nature wasn’t sucicide proofed!!


Humanity relies on the basis of emotional wealth, a wealth of feeling to redeem the inherent weakness of our nature and dilute the purity of our selfish instincts for personal survival, an inherent backup to make people better than the creatures of a flawed logic and cruelly ruthless evolution. Betterment a cure for the lesser potential we are frighteningly capable of with such little actual effort, such minor exertions to release the volatility of how we are beneath the layers of inadequately protective fluff.

Emotional depths conceal the deadliest of secrets within the guise of an overall positive goal, that of the goal of idealistic hope which belies something less of a mind lighter with rightful love. This deeper secret is that of the much referenced flip side from which undercurrents decieve, the folds of humanity keep from sight those that feel not the delightful embrace but the destructive self induction of all things bleakly, a mess of what leftovers the positively inclined are free to deny.

The edge of where those that absorb the joy of the world is where I sit, a member of the horde less welcome with its burning rage that’s running carbon dense the fibre of every unwanted feeling, each hated flick of putrefying happy thought I am forced to endure. Why do I have to be human, why do I need to be human and what benefit does it reap upon the fragile exsistance of worldly good, a broken toy to devalue the rest.