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Your Own Little WorldI take no noticeof the world.Unless the worldis born of words.I didn't ask tolive in your fantasy,just to exist asyour reality.It'd only bea friendshipbonded by myinnocence.You'd just stand thereand smile for truth.But that idea died.Desire's hitand run onideology.And still it chases me,sinks its teeth in deep.Leaving me scared,surrounding me withmetaphors nobody willunderstand.But they enticethe afterlifeand I'd rather your worlddied before I would.If I sound sick,accept this apology:I simply forgothow to be human.Pollute your little worldand set me free.Let me learn againand not feelguiltyfor breathing.
SleepwalkerStuck half way?That's so you,can't even singcan't even hear you.Just pull yourself outof the walls ofyour schools andlife will be betterwhen you finallyescapeto see how smallthe world can be,when trapped in a dream.How slowly the sun sets,how long it takesfor youto just turn off the lightand make the universeseem empty.Close all curtainsand kill all communication.All we need tonightis each other.Only alone in the darkcan you truly beyouand speak to meuntil the night fadesto whiteand you go back home,scared of what they see,but just keep walkingso nobody will even knowthat youwere once here.
She Has a Journal NowShe has a journal now,a newborn echo of life,forever changing,maybe moving but,I wouldn't know.Her diary comes out,and I start to cryhypocritical tears.She has a unique friend,binded to its author.Her privacy, my enemy.Only good for paranoia.What business has some bookin knowing the truth?The journal is dead(long live the boyfriend)But she has a journal now,so how am I any fucking use?
Cabaret of the MacabreThirty years,forty more.Progressing on,insane and obscure.Failed in my artand disappearedfor everyone.Now dancing with the dead.What's once madeis now no more.Here to remainancient, immature.Listen to horror,instincts on hiatus.Twenty years on,this opus collection.
To The EndProduct of mental discord,but my mind's not quite gone.What if you were to dream of him?You often seem preoccupied.What if I was the burden?Paranoia is the greatest sympathy.The finest symphony of two soulsabove universal law, above everybody,leading the way into the believablefellowship of reassuring arms.I guess our creator has the darkestsense of humour, most unassuming.All they left you was lonelinessand we were each other's only hope.Now who exactly is this 'we'?Feeling torn's a sign of our times,someday we will look back and laughat how our trials were described.We'll just want to go back andwrite some more wrong poems.And how wrong we were when we said"Distance is inevitable," and,"It'll be a significant failure."What's this fading dream we had?Why leave such wonderful isolation?I have no feeling on finishing,because I will never let this end.I can't move on when you're gone,I won't feel this 'we' emotionif you become a dying illusion.
Deep Rooted Nightmare"Can't we ignore it?It's not a concern."Mental infection withsome fatal symptoms.Very real to us anddispleasing to God.Power and control,they falsely alleged.Each day different,and each storyis different still.No place for second chances.Sex against one's will.Too scared to testify,terrified for the child.This hidden sorrow, trappeddeep in a dark society.Wife abuse turns tofetal abuse, for themaggot swallows, no-oneignores it.Poison.