Please

A droplet quenches my thirst
A nibble satisfies my hunger
One small minute ray of sunshine brightens my day, lights my world
A small scrap of cloth warms me in the dead of winter
A single cent is my fortune
A crack is my grand canyon
It might mean nothing to no one but me, but I think it the world
My heart flutters. My world pauses. My soul brightens. My spirits lift.

This is love. This is real. Let me give it to you.

truth

Yes, I believe in God, and I know that Jesus Christ died for man's sins. And, yes, I'm familiar with the redemption and forgiveness and being born again theory. It sounds real nice.
I also believe that there is a serpent inside of me that I cannot control. I believe that my particular soul is poisoned, is tainted. We can't all be winners people. There is Hell that lives inside of me; fire, not blood, pulses through my veins.
I can worship and fellowship and patron and pray all I want, but I cannot bring myself back to life. My soul inside me is poisoned and tainted and tarnished and dead.
I am nothing.
And I still believe that I cannot be saved.
An overwhelming anxiety and uncontrollable fear prevents me from seeking.
And worst of all, pain is my heroine. I need to have it inside of me to feel right. And I need to spread it amongst my fellow man. Misery loves company. I need to hurt to breathe.
I pain, and I inhale, and I pain and I exhale. And without suffer I cannot breathe. Hate is fuel, is oxygen, is my everything.

I will not be saved because I cannot be saved because I cannot repent because I am not sorry because my sins bring me sick pleasure because the serpent inside me thrives on the hate and the anger that I breed.
The End

The Hole

Nothing
No movement
Still
It will beat no longer
No one
Death
Fire
This solitary hell
I cut and I bleed
And I can't
And I won't
It's over
Bury me inside my personal nothingness
I am no more
I never was

The Whole

A whirlwind
Flurry
Yes
Can
Will
The joy
My everything
It's here, and I will make it stay
This world is mine. Make me king
I have
Love
Life
Heart
Here. Inside me
I'm alive

Snuff

Explain these experiences to me
Describe these sensations, make me some sense of them
Don't leave me alone to feel for myself
Take my hand
Lead me.
Somewhere.
Bring me to where you want me to be and introduce me to myself
Fill my head with the white and with the light.
Tell me what I am thinking, and teach me what I feel.

Alone I wither and I decay. I rot from the inside.

Pick me up and hold me towards the heavens.
Show me the light of day.
Lead me along your path, for mine ends only in fire. I burn.

Douse these flames
Take this life

The Fog

It clouds my judgement and it impairs my ability to think, to reason or believe, and to even feel. There is a haze inside my head that consumes my brain and devours my soul. Somewhere inside is a man with thoughts and emotions, with hopes and dreams. But he is buried deep beneath the grey. There is compassion and love and there is joy and ambition. But it is paralyzed by the nothingness, by the empty.
In my most coherent moments i think and I feel and I plan and I am alive and well. But in my day to day being I am a zombie, a mindless nothing driven by fear and hate. The fog, the haze, the grey eats away at my heart, my soul, and it consumes the part of me that is alive and human. All that is left is the anger and the hate and the discontent and that is all that is seen on the surface.
I am not me. I am a by-product of my fractured mind. I act on impulse and instinct. Fight or flight. And there is a war waging inside of me. The lucidity versus the fog. The potential versus the haze. The love and the want versus the grey.
I am divided amongst myself, and I cannot win this fight.
I am in pieces inside of myself.

A Message From The Pure Somewhere Still Inside

Hey, Ben:

Help me If you can. It's just that this is not the way I'm wired, so help me understand Why you've given in to woe these reckless dumb desires. You medicated drama queen, picture perfect numb belligerence, you narcissistic drama queen, craving fame and all its decadence. You're lying to yourself again, lying through your teeth again, lying to my face again. Suicidal imbecile, think about it, you're pounding on a fault line. Why would I want to watch you throw it away like this? Such a mess, I'm over this. Why would I want to watch you disconnect and self-destruct, one bullet at a time? What's your hurry? Everyone will have his day to die.

If you choose to pull the trigger, should your drama prove sincere, do it somewhere far away from here.

Sincerely,
What Might Remain

Eleven

I am a follower of lachrymology.
Lachrymology is a philosophy, a religion that embraces pain, and, specifically, its release through crying, as a means to move to a higher state of being. Founded in the 1940s by Ronald P. Vincent.

I am truly an ardent disciple of lachrymology, and not simply someone who has yet to put 46 and 2 together.

The universe is hostile, so impersonal. Devour to survive, so it is, so it's always been

I wake up in the morning and I must choose between going out and killing myself so that I might one day receive life anew, or staying in and passively waiting for the sweet crippling embrace of death at last.