• ✍️ WORDS ✍️

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Postulating moderation to insist on National Socialists to want.

Want what?

Anti-moderation is like the alcoholics last true hopeless romantic vision. Switch. Why are you in Australia?

Better be to be at Austria.
Better be to be on colored ground.

Desist. Stop being. Don't be upside down. New York is right side- up. German Game. Virus Organism.
Krauts and Yanks.


Is this still chess?

Your move.

I'd scratch through glass not to be without you.
 
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Last edited by ForEverAfter; Today at 17:35. Reason: blatant apostrophe abuse

lol sorry mxe will do that to a person.
 
i pour wine down my throat,
a dry creekbed of lies and barren insult

i want to set the bush on fire and
run around naked,

to scortch my flesh, burn my eyes

but even after,
amongst the crows
my charred body, the bones
still clatter.
 
thou pronounceth, “methoxetamine is apostrotoxic!”
thou meaneth to say, “touché”
the abbreviated poet: a co-incidental propagandist; inadvertently advertising chewing gum
writing dope
fungal infections pending
as dead Japanese
rise from the ashes
massing scarce words
post-bohemian junkies hollowing out television sets to make bookshelves
oppressed by the majority, arrested for self-inflicted wounds
self-treated, self-medicated, self-diagnosed disorders
mistreated, denied, demonized and neglected
disgraced femoral heroines versus upstanding villains
their relentless cruelty is a kindness
they volunteer their fists and their batons
we volunteer nothing, but Words
 
Today is no different


Today is no different
Numb to all that is living
Afraid of everything moving
Coming back to the same
The same that I once was not

Continuously confused
Shackled in open space
Free in a prison cell
Hungry to infinity
Red to the white
Oh what relief that should bring
An experiment so deeply buried
Only a foolish man could find

Sharp pains inside lack the fineness
Unexplained and unrelated
The senses become void
Importantly I struggle
Tragically I fail


I love to write and yet I have such an awkward structure to my writing. It is very "mechanic". I'd love to get some advice from you guys about how it is that I can improve my writing.
 
I look outside my window
and it becomes quite clear:

the whole world is going to hell.

think I'll go put the kettle on
and read a book.
 
It's raining,
She is walking,
Many many miles,
To meet somebody,
That she just met,
A little while,
Ago.
 
ForEverAfter said:
thou pronounceth, “methoxetamine is apostrotoxic!”
thou meaneth to say, “touché”
the abbreviated poet: a co-incidental propagandist; inadvertently advertising chewing gum
writing dope
fungal infections pending
as dead Japanese
rise from the ashes
massing scarce words
post-bohemian junkies hollowing out television sets to make bookshelves
oppressed by the majority, arrested for self-inflicted wounds
self-treated, self-medicated, self-diagnosed disorders
mistreated, denied, demonized and neglected
disgraced femoral heroines versus upstanding villains
their relentless cruelty is a kindness
they volunteer their fists and their batons
we volunteer nothing, but Words
Click to expand...

Outstanding!
 
A scrubjay flies once more around
Grieving her son's last hour
He lies fallen to the ground
Vainly reaching towards the skies
Not knowing he is trapped
Between smiling feline eyes
 
The bird has escaped the cage
as opposed to leaving the nest,
A midnight boundary of walls
made from muffled emotions
in rubble upon the earth..

Who do I care for now?
 
i'm a shit person,
i've come to accept that
in those brief moments
when I have a cigarette in hand
or a bottle of liquor
or when i've chased away
new friendships
or destroyed old ones.
the purpetual judging
of others
that comes out like tourettes,
bluntly speaking,
aggitating,
forcing my glitter-shit world view
my own delusion of a perfect world.
schizophrenic, bi-polar, major-depressive
diety-hopping, pseudo-religious bumbling prophet,
cult leader, addict, loser.
 
penispenispenispenispenispenispenispenis
penispenispenispenispenispenispenispenispenis
penispenispenispenispenispenispenispenispenis
penispenispenispenispenispenispenispenispenis
penispenispenispenispenispenispenispenispenis
penispenispenispenispenispenispenispenispenis
 
A wanderer returns
To the land of his birth
Seeking neither hearth nor steeple
But the secret grove
The flowered glade
Fond memories of love
Reaching yon hill
Before matin bells have rung
Lost in misty reverie
Lulled by warbler's song
Daybreak fast approaches
Sunlight pierces fog
Leeward slope reveals
Charcoal trees and orchre soil
Broken by seldom primrose
A single tear, a silent prayer
Are all he leaves behind
A momento mori
From a stranger passing by
 
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The bittersweet composure
ahead of the oncoming train,

I run in my dreams,
anywhere but here,

Purpose balances upon
the scales of dosage.
 
Waves
crashing on
a barren shore.

Pretty little flowers
that smell of
chloroform.

Naked, I hide
and beg to
be admired,
But no soul
answers, when I
knock on the closet.
 
i wake drunk again,
atheism in practice.
the kitchen smells like
burnt sausages, i must
have cooked them in my
drunken amnesia last night.
i can't bare to enter
the kitchen, knowing that
it's entire contents are in the sink
unwashed.
this hangover is fucked
& thankfully codeine is
over the counter here--
perpetually medicated,
intoxication upon intoxication,
modern biology.

thank you Einstein

&

fuck you Jesus
 
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there's something therapeutic about washing the dishes
 
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A rabid beast
untempored amygdala
hidden in sight without
sound or peace
in starving gluttony
as horizons harken it's torrid feif
 
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