Vines intertwine like an endless canvass of lines upon lines and more lines.
Cracks, more formally known as vines, lines, mine..
Exhaustion consumes liquid life, whether mixed with fake flavor, processed man made substances born to create a temporary sense of bliss.. sip, gulp.
Hospital bed, never lonely but never knowing true love, unrestricted love
found only by a true patient, one dying, one being erased from humanity, dead.
Advances metals, alloys, and broadcloth transforming into an evolving form of grade-A plastic explosives.
To rest on corrosive materials things, seems to be an insane feat but why?
Everyone of us do it every "night." To each his own.
Living our own life leads to our own form of "special" cancer,
by products of our own existence, our own death.
I was not shot to death, i killed myself. Murder is not a word, suicide is all.
My so called murderer only sped up my own demise that i had spent so long,
building up like a firework display, it all ends with a bang.
My walking corpse, alive as well as dead is filled with vines.
Vines leading to cracks, leading to lines.. what is real and what is false.
Cancerous vines within my own body, smoke, nothing more than a product of our own species.
I DO NOT kill anyone but myself.
I HAVE the choice to do it at a normal, birthright pace.
I HAVE the choice to do it at a rapid pace, my choice.
No one else is the killer of anyone, we are all the same person...
someone struggling to survive,
riches.. fame.. wealth, none of it means anything in our subconscious.
Why cant anyone do right but only wrong?
Why do i have to lay on toxic beds at birth or should i say death..
this is no life, no one knows true life. we ourselves are dead at birth, dying only to live.
after death comes birth, death again.
Written in June of 2011.
2 of 6. written in the later years of senior year, interesting head-space at the time. These 6 are almost unrecognizable without too much thought. This one is a bit heavy.