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.

Contemplative Dawn

A night owl draws in inspirational energy from the lucid time that haunts from Twilight hours to the pre dawn sky, a sample of perfection in the dusk light period that skirts the breaking glory of a renewed days glow

These words are not the phrasing I want!

A night owl drinks in the dead space between the dim light evening of everyone else’s bedtime retreat and thier rising to the over glaring sun, as red as the sunset offers it has no comparison to deep rich blood of a night owls tired venom that blurs blood shot eyes, sampling the sacred hours of isolated hollow time when the world is covered in z’s

Writers screamingly tear into glaring screens, dispelling thier creative fuel into flourishes of words to colour their readers a new shade of wow, a direct feed of black coffee and chocolate to give the shaking hands a continued flow till bodies fail and heads fly wild style to unkept beds to stock up on sleep, til the next crazed session of letter filled outbursts corrupt the page

Artistic rage a refined storm of paint and colour upon the vastly abstract canvas, that rests at the will of the creative nature of possessed visions from overloading minds in cog spitting, smoke pouring glory

Insomniacs in zombie mood mindlessly calculating sheepishly the numbers they numbingly count to bring into being that sacred state called sleep, wide eyed wonder shadowed by blackening sacks of skin that hang beneath fraught twitchy eyes, no hope to rest when restless reluctance holds in maddened states weary minds

To the night owls I say, a toast raised in champagne glasses formed of fractured pieces of day lit states that vampiric shun sunny days, ‘To the night, the dark and all that fills the space upon which we paint our dreams’

To the night owls….