Hate; To Hate




To Hate

A peaceful form of humanity will with cursing word lament that word and all the heavy sorrows it brings to both self imposed and otherwise projectile wrath upon less worthy to be stained.

Now remove the blinkered frames of one more blessed:

A tempest of tempered hate and all that heavy sorrow will willing drown in gasping screams has no such simplistic curse when the one to lament is that of a person so contained within the biting friction of hate’s chains, no escape in desperate steps to calm a vessel tainted of all the bitterness a wrathful nature will bring to poison the emotional well. As those around wallow luxuriously in regretful apologetic malaise to repent you are the tower of infernal ill intent for which their method of recovery only fuels the inferno of self loathing hell, a twist of emotional perception so cruelly makes that rapturous sting of rage a thing to bring much needed and on knees begged for relief.


A complex labyrinth of reasoned logic in every corrupted vine so chokingly reaching from that fatal word is the origin of what fuels your anger that historically stands as nearly as old as the gods, every fated seed of that vine like intrusion on serene thought is a thing buried in much unwontedly sources of each negatively scorned act cast upon your person in vulnerable age. Unless it was not a thing from without but a more putridly evil act to hath planted that seed in the body you forcible inhabit, so to grow unknowingly an unholy god in the wings of what most would have choice to choose what to play the role of, angel or fallen creature much maligned.

How to deal with an inherit blade of unwanted anti-social edge?

  • Strap tight to levels of unbearable pain the mask of something you with much persistently torturing suffering are not, so to placate those around?
  • Become the beast born a thousand years more than any force a mind much fractured can ever summon to fight back that which resides within?
  • Fight an endless misery of battles upon the ravaged scars of a landscape scarred, in all but another’s cursory glance with light hearted intent, to manage to try to restrain the beast?

If only one could rule under the insidiously persistent issue a singular cure to catch in much willing lust to end what lashes out unfairly and without cause, if only it were so easy as to take a pencil and cast in much pressure a constant line through but one aspect of what makes a person a persona. But when the demon you face is so sewn into the very underlying fabric of what you must with conflicting screams know to be a damned component of the machine labelled with whatever name you were gifted, how to tear a piece of the whole without a resultant unravel of the faithfully resplendent rest.

Some fights I fear are never meant to relent or be laid to rest


Commit to flame in honest repent a will to care of candid hate

Try in fire and goodness stoked to rapid heat to kill the shade of that savage fist

She begged she fought she pleaded to the lord to hold your rage on that fated day

You begged you fought you pleaded to the lord to strike a force upon you in vicious fury

Air so still and tension cold in half hazard breathes grasping tight saving seconds of a moment bold

A sting has stung in the very blood to leak from the knifes intrusion into human fresh

She stared she screamed she shouted curses to heavens no mortal ears could wish to withstand

Red a colour in quantity so grand does stain her dress from the mortal wound

A disgraced wretch is you in every ounce of what monsters laugh as the joke of fate you have being cast

A stagger long as jagged edge as the knife it was removed against advice of an echoes tone

Looking pale to what you’ve become her skin to match the stare that burns a hole in begging form

Wheels screech as sirens wail in every element of that temporal stretch of a ride to where angels beckon

Her eyes do fail in lower toned screams of pain subside she fades to deathly nothing with hollowing eyes

The knife did go deep enough to sever a heart

She’ll not suffer as the wound still bleeds

Your rage hath ended by a women’s merciful hand

Forced to stab you in the raise of an angered hand

Whether god will forgive or condemn?

No harm to cause the feminine flower of what you once claimed to never hurt will from your sinful form ever be cast

An ash, an Owed and a Poetic letter

An ash to angst the eye of the beholder of the beast upon which the blade doth sit. A death owed to me by all that’s hell in the mind much lost to where the sandman cast my ability to sleep. So hell a shade on paper or to my pen ink pot for where words may fail the screaming visual of all I do regret to feel. My demon will have to carry forth the vice of a man in poetic verse undone.

Only way a Rage may end

Wheels screech

Sirens wail in every element of that temporal stretch of a ride to where angels beckon

Her eyes do fail, the pain subsides

She fades to deathly nothing with hollowing eyes

The knife did go deep enough to sever a heart

She’ll not suffer as the wound still bleeds

Your rage hath ended by a women’s merciful hand

Forced to stab you in the raise on an angered hand


Medical advice from a razor wielding noose maker!

Symptoms: Losing the desire to smash your head into every mirror, agreeing to things that go against any sense of sanity or self-preservation and no longer getting any sense of happiness from acts of rage and verbal barrages

Conclusion: You are losing the ability to self loath whilst simultaneously suffering a lack of will to wish self harm upon yourself, depressive levels no longer have a valued comparative event to reference and feed your suicidal thoughts

Treatment options:

1. Start, Sabotage and ruin a relationship until the memories are too painful, thus fueling your negative impulses

2. Lose a few old friendships and embrace a new loneliness of such painful depths you regain the will to kill yourself

3. Venture into positive society and revive the deep seated resentment for all those happier and more successful than you

4. Buy that razor blade you always threatened to use and keep it near by until the temptation becomes a depressive vacuum

5. Engage in an act of public humiliation until the shame drags you into a self destructive cycle of personal deconstruction

Thankyou for consulting your friendly manic depressive, please don’t call again as it would flag up as negative job performance if you have failed in the fatal act of self destruction

Functionality through insanity

There are forms of therapy, ideology, philosophy and religion that preach we must accept ourselves for who we are, what we are and what makes us us, only then will we be at peace with ourselves and the world abound. A less afflicted person has to meet the guiltily blushing shopaholic, nervously shifting anxiety sufferer and maybe a stray mirror adoring narcissistic and maybe resolve to reduce their ego, forge an iron clad budget and plunge theatrically deep into therapy to exorcise the root of their anxiety.

Merry fucking hip happy high for them


In order to achieve a conformity of loose definition in terms of finding peace I have to deal with:

  • The razor blade wielding self-loathing depressive looking to cut his wrists
  • Anxiety suffering paranoid who feels inadequate compared to everyone he meets
  • Fear ridden holdback who so fears the negative consequences of releasing his potential that even talking about it in a normal medium is a stretch
  • The self-destructive self-loathing anarchist who just wants to implode privately, then explode in style
  • And who can fathom that deluded mess in the corner telling everyone that he’s a god damn normal person, whilst trying to find an acceptable definition of normality to comply with in relative terms of each situation I encounter

Now tell me; who has the ego!

Sanity is a self rewarding label proudly slapped on with glowing pride by the conformatists, happiness a smugly smothering state where by all inferior existences are horrifically shamed and of all the bull crap cultivating those terms; love, give me a pistol with a single shot and I’ll step out of the room. The only thing that really means a friggin damn in this forsaken ruthless razor of a world is functionality, a singular term made purpose in the very core of any survivalist logic that ruthlessly persists to thanklessly endure.

I am unstable; I am internally a bad day in a warzone with added acid rain and a crapstorm from hell, but I’m functional

Functional pays bills… … … sorry folks, trying to think of anything that might at least failingly raise a smile about that bluntly nil statement, and as to how I remain a serviceable excuse of a person;… … … again I’m trying but I got jack!

So I tell the razor blade wielding depressive I’ll do it tomorrow, put the razor to the anxiety sufferer and say “Work or die”, restrict my potential with safeguards a prison would call extreme to coax out the holdback, pull another fuse from the self destructive crazy’s bomb and let that deluded mess front the bunch.

And until the day that fails “Hello world, I’m (real name here) and happy to be here” (and to think people buy that shit!)

But of course you all believe me when I say nothing is wrong and I’m happy, don’t you?!