Blood Angel

Scared and cold and dripping red,
A knife cut to the bone,
Something echoes in my head,
‘..don’t want to die alone..’

A gentle wind begins to stir
My Angel whispers low,
“Silly girl, you were always were,
You simply didn’t know.”

Her final words hang in the air
“Just like a glass that shatters,
You’ll always be beyond repair
In every way that matters. “

Once in a lullaby..

This place is feeling far too much
Like Kansas, or locales with such
Mundane similarities.
Where is Toto when I need him?
Don’t want to be here anymore.
Where’s the Tornado or the Rabbit Hole
I’ve been longing for?

I cannot find my Wonderland,
Went and lost my Yellow Brick Road.
Threw myself into a mirror,
Just to have the glass explode.
Oh Neo! How I took the red pill,
In fact, I took them all.
Ended in the emergency ward,
Not in The Matrix at all.

I don’t want to be here,
For here hurts far too much,
Everything here is destroying me,
And I’m destroying all that I touch.
I long so, to leave this place,
To find somewhere else to go.
There’s this land that I’ve heard of once..
Something about a rainbow..

Interlude..

And now for something completely diff…
well.. ok, pretty much the same

Express Elevator Down:
to Major Depressive Episode?

Don’t mind if I do.

“I am just going outside and may be some time.”

Feeling a little like…

‘Who cares if one more light goes out?
In a sky of a million stars
It flickers, flickers.
Who cares when someone’s time runs out?
If a moment is all we are,
We’re quicker, quicker.
Who cares if one more light goes out?’
-One More Light / Linkin Park

‘Please don’t go, I want you to stay,
I’m begging you, please, please don’t leave here.
I don’t want you to hate for all the hurt that you feel.
The world is just illusion trying to change you.
Being like you are, well, this is something else.
Who would comprehend?’
-Illusion / VNV Nation

—-

Eyes Closed

The cold air stings
Like a slap without sound.
Head thrown back,
I watch storm-clouds gather ’round.

Freezing wind whips over me,
I feel it through my shirt,
The pain it brings is welcoming,
No wounds, but still the hurt.

And I hear the rush
Of the breeze,
And the roar
Of the free-
Way beneath me.

Close my eyes, and I know
I could do it.
Just another one,
I could become,
A statistic.

I could become the delay
The commuters all hate,
Cos I ruined their day..

With my eyes closed.

“…I want to get off.”

I smile and pretend like I’m ok,
And everyone I know
Views me that way.
But my masks are made from stone and lead,
And I carry them all
Inside of my head.

I know there’s something wrong with me,
But I don’t know what, and
No one can see
The cuts that run across my skin,
Where my soul seeps out,
And the world creeps in.

I don’t know about this thing called life,
Seems like it’s just a metaphor
For suffering and strife.
I’ve tried to see the beauty others see,
But I’m really not so sure
This world is for me.

Wha..?

Well I’ll admit, yeah,
I’m a little more than tipsy.
Took a handful of pills
With some single-malt whiskey.

Cos I don’t know anymore
What we’re on this planet for,
Why I’m bothering with sober
When my life feels like it’s over.

And the funny thing is, yeah,
The thing that gets to me,
No-one would even notice,
I’m the girl no one can see.

I could get stoned, get wasted,
Be tripping, shit-face-ed,
Makes no difference at all,
If I chose to make that call.

It doesn’t seem that far to fall
Anyway

on the count of three..

I’m not sure whose finger is on the trigger,
But let’s pull it.
We both know I need the bullet,
We both know I want this all to end.
We know it’s pointless even to pretend.
Oblivion will be my only friend.

excerpt – Smilla

“The knives in my apartment are only sharp enough to open envelopes with. I don’t need anything sharper. Otherwise, on bad days, it might easily occur to me that I could always go stand in the bathroom in front of the mirror and slit my throat. On such occasions it’s nice to have the added security of needing to go downstairs and borrow a decent knife from a neighbor.”
-Peter Høeg, Smilla’s Sense of Snow.

The problem with suicide (quote #2)

“The problem with suicide, when you talk about suicide, most of the people I’ve experienced say:
‘well, it doesn’t do any good, most of the people that talk about suicide just do it for attention’.
If that’s you, you can just eat all the dicks, then vomit them up, and then go fuck yourself with all those dicks.”

  • Lee Lemon

The Saga of Alice Insane

She never sleeps or seems to cry,
Just sits and watches flowers die.
Patterns on footpaths, drawn in chalk,
Heedless of those who try to walk
On by or stop to gawk.

Prefers to do it in the rain,
Considered to be quite insane,
But they can’t ever see the pain
That fills her over and over again.

And she hates the sun,
Wet chalk is best,
Better to express the mess
She burns with need just to confess
to uncaring pavement.

And though she’s out there every day
No one knows where she goes or stays.
Even when she’s home in bed,
She’s not there, she’s in her head.

And they can’t understand
Why she laughs for no reason,
Or screams in their face
How her soul is bleeding.

Packets of chalk, notebooks of sorrow,
No tomorrow, no tomorrow.
She agrees that it’s no jest,
Dreams of dying are the best.

She sits amongst the dying leaves,
Looking for something to hold,
As she mourns in grief
Her loss of belief in all things she was told.
In the fairytale all about,
How in the end, things work out.

There was a time she didn’t doubt,
But innocently believe,
Now runs her fingers over the scars
That such untruths can leave.

Crushes dead sticks into pieces,
Hoping that the act releases
Something.
But feels nothing.

Takes her chalk and draws a ring,
Pretending it’s a solid thing,
Letting nothing out or in,
And lies inside it sobbing.

Regrets how hard she ever tried,
Now her trust has gone and died
alongside her belief and pride,
That she was to be something.
Now is nothing.

Almost midnight, a sliver of moon,
And a thunderstorm approaching soon.
Yet on the pavement Alice sits,
Chalk now smashed to dust and bits,
The outline she drew, a perfect fit,
For a murder scene and her place in it.

All she need do is just lie down
In the corpse outline
On the frozen ground,
And fall into slumber without any sound,
Until in the morning, finally found,
Her body and spirit no longer bound.

I’ll take mine black

Too often
These cooling cups of tea
Bring darker thoughts instead,
Of empty eyes
And lukewarm baths,
Filled with swirling red.

Of the slow drip-dripping
Onto a tiled floor.
Alongside all these feelings
That have no metaphor.
No way to describe..
Being dead inside.

the lake

Daughter of Autumn
Entered the lake.
Slowly, gently,
No ripple in wake.

Nightgown tied tightly
To a lifetime of sorrow,
To rocks and stones, and
A book she had borrowed.

She whimsically wished
There were waterlillies.

Shook uncontrollably,
Sobbing within,
Icy water passed over her chin.
Gave herself into the water..

Cries no more, Autumn’s Daughter.

Heartbroken Hands..

Heartbroken hands
Whispered
Confessions of crystalline aches.
Bends, breaks, mistakes.
An icy affinity for cracking.

Wrote heartbroken hands
‘I have darkness’.
They found her broken letters and verse,
Ending with the trembling words
Writ in blood-stained ink: ‘I am lacking’.