Thursday, March 4, 2010


I promised myself a suicide of the soul would never occur again. It's one thing to martyr the body, but there is nothing holy about selling your soul to the Devil, only to free one of his deamons from hell. Now I can't think of any pretty words to string into understanding, to explain how I feel.
Hello. Please tell me about myself.
I could make each and every one of these blogs make sense. But I am afraid. And yet I need to speak, to be heard. I can't be difficult. I'm an artist, I show EXACTLY how I feel. And I'm sick of hearing and seeing the negative. I want my senses to dull. So I can trully feel something beyond a limiting... sense, for lack of a better word.
As long as that something isn't the sensation of my essence seeping out through the nail holes in my hands and my feet. Just like empty air. That's all I mean to anybody anymore. A pretty face with no mind, and maybe I'm unhappy but I could never say that to anybody.
This is getting too straightforward.
I can't battle myself if I don't know what's wrong with me. I feel too deeply, yeah, we've got that already.
This is nothing but word throw up. Vomiting thoughts to try and find some jewel I swallowed and lost once upon a time. Don't kiss a crucifix if your lips are nothing but floating vessels for lies. Every Judas in my life makes me believe in miracles just a little bit less.
But I still believe in ressurection.
Come fix this.

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