Tag: Writing

Pursuits of Life

What is the point of being alive?

What is the point of being a living organism on a planet such as earth?

Is it for capitalism?

Is it biological?

Is it for the greater good?

Is it even our choice to be functional humans within a society?

Why must things be done at the ‘right time’?

Why must things be done at all?

Why must we suffer and live in that suffer?

Why must we live for other beings who do not live for us?

This is how I view it:

Life should be for the pursuit of art.

To create and birth something meaningful, relevant and sickening.

Life should be for the pursuit of love.

To love and be loved is the greatest objective and the only reason to live in a horrible world such as ours.

Life should be for the pursuit of pain.

To learn from discomfort and to cause other’s discomfort.

Life should be for the pursuit of emotions.

To be controlled and led by your highest and lowest points

Life should be for the pursuit of self.

To cater, care and honor yourself as if you are a God

And make other’s do the same.

Life is meaningless and is filled with false prophecies and false truths.

However, with these five goals,

Life become a bit more

Pleasurable. 

For Your Amusement

What amuses you, my dearest reader?
Do you enjoy hearing about my own pain and delusions?
Do you like hearing about my psychotic breaks?
Let me give you one.

Sometimes, I hate my mind.

I hate the things I create and play out in mind.

But I love the feeling of it.

The feeling that I possess the power to harm someone,

To harm myself. 

Sometimes, I imagine myself in full on tears,

Dripping down my face onto my thick brown thighs.

I am facing a wall, a strong, brick wall

And I see myself driving my head into the wall.

I continue doing this, with all my strength,

Again,

And again,

And again,

Until my blood is painted on the wall

With pieces of my sweet, brain matter scattered along the piece.

My forehead is flattened and I’m dizzy.

My tears have stopped and a smile is born.

My joy is overwhelming as well as my pain.

I faint, into death or into sleep, from it. 

Sorrow and Comfort

When my body was focused into puberty,

I became aware of sorrow,

And how my tears are my comfort.

I remember the sorrow I felt about my changing body.

I didn’t want to be an adult and wear a bra at 

The age of ten.

However, I was focused into it.

I cried as I was fitted into my first training bra.

A bra that I will wear for years since my breast barely grew.

I remember the sorrow I felt after my first heartbreak.

The tears I cried could have filled the four oceans.

The pain I felt follows me to this day.

I still cry for the lost love I gave.

I remember the sorrow I felt after every fling and relationship I’ve experienced.

Despite me being an unhinged, disturbed being,

I am still capable of giving ample love and time to the men who could care less about my well-being.

There is countless examples of my sorrow,

this is only a short list. 

I am a human that is often subjected to pain.

From my life experiences to my own dreams,

I am haunted and tortured.

How does my body produce so much sorrow?

I wish I knew.

How does my eyes fill with buckets of tears? 

I wish I had an answer.

My being begs to be expelled from my body 

If this pain continues.

Maybe I will let it free one day.

But until then,

I write about my pain and monstrous thoughts and daydreams with you, 

My dearest reader.

Homecoming

They always come back.

It’s not something new to me.

I stare at you, with love or with hate in my eyes,

As you beg for me.

You beg like a child in need of their mother

And it admiring,

Almost arousing for me. 

I love when they return and beg for me back.

It make me feel like a king on their throne,

Overlooking all the peasants below them. 

I pull your sorrowful face that is soaked with tears and snot 

Up towards mine. 

You look so disgustingly pitiful this way and I love it.

“What are you sorry for, sweetie?”

You tried to lower your head in shame, but I grab your chin hard and pull it back up.

“What are you sorry for?” I spit out at him.

“I’m sorry for,” you begin as tear continue to fall down your face.

“I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m really sorry.”
I drop your chin from my hands as I continue to look at you with disgust.

They always come back to apologize, to beg for a second chance.

They always do

And it feels so godly. 

Human Urges

Sometimes, I get the urge to rip my entire face off. 
To feel my long, pointy nails pierce my skin.
To feel the skin gather under my nails
As they drag down my face,
Along my chin,
And down my neck.

Sometimes, I have the urge to hurt someone.
Not physically; that would be too easy.
I want to feel the energy shift and
the pause to process what I have said.
I want to see the disbelief in their eyes,
The heartbreak in their heart.
The reaction, no matter what it is, to my actions.

Sometimes, I have the urge to tear open my chest. 
To pull apart my breast and dig through the skin and flesh
Until I reach my ribs.
I want to crack each bone, pull back my lungs
And grab my sweet, beating heart.
And I want to detach it from my body and admire it.
Then, I will press my thumbs into it,
Feeling through the soft, plushy material until I reach the center. 
I want to stare into it and caress it before I faint from

The overwhelming joy and blood loss. 

Renewal

I can’t stop crying. I just can’t. My tears run down my face like a cool, spring stream. They collect and dry on my pillows. I feel my being beg my heart to stop beating, to cease the everlasting sorrow within my soul.

Bottles upon bottles are filled with my tears and crescent moons form and leak blood within my palms. My brain will soon erupt as it can’t handle this much distress.

Slowly, My eyes grow sore and empty. My muscles are weak and beg for relief. My head begins to pound rapidly. My will to live is depleted.

My brain uses the little power it possess to turn my attention to my appearance in the mirror. My face is cover with wet streaks of make-up that is beginning to dry. My hair is dull and lifeless. My clothing is covered with dried blood, my dried blood. My hands are numb and blood still drips from them.

Despite this, I can’t help, but to smile. My tired face is able to pull my lips into a big, joyous smile. I have lost every sense in my being and I have been dehumanized. But I love it. I feel like I have been reborn and renewed into something better, something more terrifying and disturbed. I can’t help but to love every bit of it and what’s to come. 

Made for Me

I thought it was impossible to meet a man 

As deranged and lost in this world as I am.

One who has no will to live and only lives 

To raise hell amongst the world.

One who looks at me as if I’m god

And Satan.

One who is able to tame 

My inner wrath and hatred.

One who makes this horrible world

Worth living, even for a few more years.

From the second I met him,

I knew he was made for me,

And only me. 

Love isn’t that simple

Love is not that simple.

Love in not that simple to me.

Other people experience it as 

Something fresh, pleasant and joyful.

I experience it as 

a rebirth, dreading and overall painful.

Love,

For me,

Turns into obsession.

Turns into wanting to be apart of your physical being.

Turns into a burning pain due to how much I crave and desire.

Love,

For me,

Is sickening.

My daily functions depend on your admiration of me.

My mind, body and soul depends on your overall happiness.

Love,

For me,

Becomes my entire identity.

I am not me if I don’t have or possess you.

I am meaningless without love.

Is this healthy?
No, it isn’t.

But it’s the only way I thrive within my being.