My pain addiction. The affliction with the fucking ambition to bring the end of my days, to fruition. The Seedy Underbelly of Burned Bridges has roots in every good deed done without Karma's Permission. Like, a human transmission... Rode too hard and, put away, having never gotten wet.
In Scarlett Letters to myself, my hand vomits violent clots as I field dress my mind, from it's sharply revolting thoughts. Every which way but grounded. Every which way but intended.
The smoke is free; the ride, that's what costs us and, there's no escape hatch in a Black Hole but she's Sugar, in the raw; She enjoyed the finer things in life like, Brass knuckle engagement rings and, don't forget something; never feed the animals.
We are all born terminal and, I can't tell if I'll find my way through the dense emptiness, so... Please, Don't waste precious time waiting under the street lights, for me to crawl back out from my own Darkness.
I'll never break character because I don't play games. The only role, is reel to reel. Her Jaw skids to a grinding hault like, two plates of raw, fighting steel. Her Fists and Teeth clench down. The electricity telling her heart to keep pumping but not slow down, glitches... Because her broken mind is gaunt and, in stitches.
To the one who desires, all he admires, as he creeps through the Darkness, to me. Her tears are emotionally charged volcanic ash on her cheeks that, stop poetic fury from unleashing through her fists, instead of making you bleed but how can she bury a hatchet that, she never brought to the fight.
Life is punishment for an abject failure. Our demons, we see. Their goodness, lurking in the light of shadows is what frightens me. They're the ones who hurt me.
Carbon Templates and, Mindless Think tanks. You couldn't handle it anyway, my mind.