Simply me and my musings


There are hurricanes and storms on distant planets that last for hundreds of years because there is nothing to stop them

And there is a whole universe surrounding us, carrying on regardless of our problems

Stars look down upon us from the future and only see ashes, the dust of wishes long dead float past

We are a blink in the timeline of the galaxy and yet have the audacity to seek purpose within our own brief time

The curse of human nature is that we can make anything real if we believe in it enough

And I believe this hurricane raging inside of me has been tearing me apart for years

Because for years I have been empty with no substance to me

And for years I believed I was nothing, so I became nothing, and the hurricane raged on because there was nothing to stop it

We are a generation that is ready to die but none of us are ready to live

Too scared to let go of the demons of our adolescence

Who hold our hand when we feel lonely

We believe we deserve to be sick, feeling okay can’t be right, there must be another thing wrong

So we seek to find tragedy in happiness just to feel we are not losing ourselves

We keep the hurricanes beneath our skin spinning with thoughts that viciously tear away at flesh and slowly wear down bone

A sense of worthlessness so real that you convince even those who love you not to look into the eye of the storm lest they lose a limb

Or a heart

Hope is a word that sounds nice but echos back when I say it too loudly and it terrifies me to hear my voices sound nothing like my mind

Love is something I question and desperately seek  to find but flinch away from when I feel its touch  on this bruised heart

I find it unsettling because I chose to be a ghost and as detached from the world as I am I should not be able to feel anything

It is easier to turn happiness away than it is to lose it, easier to explain away these irking flutters of emotion with hard logic than face them with soft vulnerability

There is a whole other world in which I live that is separate from the reality others share, and it is dying

I know the reason, but playing God and controlling the destruction is the drug of choice here

An addiction to misery, a preference to feel pain over pleasure

Because in the end, this low is my high

When life gives you Hell, become the Devil.

Wicked Little Habits

You tell yourself you’re better off alone

That everything is temporary

Yet find yourself creating ghosts

Just to keep you company

Go ahead then

Push everyone you love away

Just to know you can survive

The hole they’ll leave one day

Keep wandering from place to place

Too scared to put down roots

Cause caring is like Russian Roulette

You shoot, click, shoot, click, shoot, click,



What moment was it

When I turned on this skin

My mind became deranged

A rabid beast set loose within

It wasn’t always like this


Consuming hate

For this enemy of flesh

Wherever I go

Reflections of disgust follow

Mortification of the mind

Vicious torture so refined


Self destruction is an art

You do it piece by piece

Until you fall apart

In love with the game

You go right back to the start

Piece by piece

Part by part


When did I realize

I couldn’t be enough

Suddenly inadequate

Undeserving of love

I wasn’t always like this


Poisoned thoughts

Seeds planted in a kiss

I’ll let the ones too close go

Push until they’re convinced

A life without me is bliss

I have no hold on happiness


Self destruction is an art

Lose yourself piece by piece

Rip into your heart

You are your punishment

Let it heal, then restart

Piece by piece

Part by part

Ruins and Graves

Gasoline spit

Words like matches

I’m screaming through fire

Crying into ashes


Severed connections

All around me bridges burn

Swear I didn’t want this

A lesson I never learned


Pyre of solitude

Flames crash in blue waves

There’s nothing left

But ruins and graves


I’m lost inside myself

seeing red within the blue

misery and hate roll beneath my skin

giving it a stormy, purple hue

with blood in the water

ripped flesh in the sea

my demons are starved

and ready to feed


I am growing within myself. A shy seed beneath the soil that I have carefully tended to, I feel excitement for every tendril that reaches out from the dark pod, every root that gently takes hold. It is slow, but it is growth. It is hope. And yet, because no one else can see it, to others it does not exist. All they see is dirt, barren and plain. It’s exhausting, having everyone whisper into the cracks bloom, bloom! They have no idea how hard I am trying.

June Gloom

June Gloom hit my garden in the heat of noon. I had managed through winter and thought that I had escaped my demon’s cold embrace and was not prepared to feel the heat of his touch. Who knew blue could be so warm. The sorrow hung in the air like a heavy humidity and weighed down every sprout I had so carefully cared for. The flowers that desperately thirsted for the sky fell limp on the ground. I have never seen petals such a lifeless hue. Such fragile, tended to blooms were no match for the viscous familiarity. Any attempt I made to water them and bring them back to life was in vain, it is the weeds who would drink it up greedily. They begged to drown in it so they could take deeper root. It was as if I was growing backwards, regressing. It’s strange to have a pain so friendly, and yet the thorns that began to grow and tear up this soil like a predator tears its prey’s flesh felt well deserved and I didn’t mind bleeding to feed it. They say you reap what you sow, but I have already worked tirelessly in this field with little grown to sustain this weary heart. Perhaps I am that which needs to be reaped. I have killed every seed I have touched and destroyed everything I tried to care for. I always knew I didn’t have a green thumb. I cannot keep things like hope and faith and happiness alive within myself. I am so tired in this heat. The constant weight is killing me. Maybe the only way I will have a garden at last is to bury it all, past, present, and future. With no more night and no more day I could finally rest; my flowers would look better on a grave anyway.

Who Are You?

God, I wish I knew. Sometimes I see the way my hand trembles and it doesn’t even feel like my own. I had lived over a decade knowing exactly who I was within my small world of ignorance, but as soon as I stepped beyond that horizon I fell off the edge of that world into an abyss. I do not know who I am. I could tell you what I’ve done in my life thus far; my actions, their consequences, events that changed me. I could tell you who I think I am: a warped beast that reeks of sulfur and self loathing, a pile of rotting flesh looking for a way to move on from this earth, the human embodiment of Pandora’s box. I could tell you who I’ve been for him and her and all the others, who it is others have mistook me for, all the times they thought I was a cure when I was really the poison. I could tell you all of this, but none of it tells you who I am anymore than it tells me. They are all just pieces to a greater puzzle. I have dissected every part of myself over and over again; tearing myself down piece by piece and over analyzing every thought, every detail, like a painful game I take sick delight in. I have looked at the universe in its vastness and tried to find my place of existence in the void. I feel I am an unmarked grave and everyone wonders what type of skeletons will lie within my coffin, what it will be that kills me, and what few words will embody everything I am in stone. My soul is restless for answers and haunts this earth with the very same questions. My life is ruled by these thoughts of the infinite possibilities before me and these questions I cannot stop asking. I suppose who we are is determined by every experience, emotion, movement, thought, action, and consequence in our lives and cannot be truly gauged in its totality until death. When someone asks who you are, you can only ever tell them who you are in that exact moment you are living, but in the next, it will change. With so many variables in our lives, so many things left unknown, we are constantly growing and morphing. Only Death can offer who you are and the promise of relief in exchange for a simple kiss.

So do not ask me who I am, for I am constantly someone else growing into someone else while yearning to be someone else. Wait until I have made my deal with the devil, I promise my eulogy will be a much easier read.


There is such a desperation within me that I can never quiet; a deep hatred for my own existence, a need for the end of it. One day I will give in and it will finally all be quiet.


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