Love letter from an ax-murdereri gouge my eyes out.Love letter from an ax-murderer by xTintedlullabyx
she has a
like crispy bones in the desert
grilled to perfection.
medium well, please;
crimson dressing on the side;
here, take my eyes,
and drench them in chocolate
take my heart
and chop finely.
Letters to a hallucinationDear Was,Letters to a hallucination by xTintedlullabyx
How was dying?
Good, I hope? Pleasant? Riveting?
Did you see the light at the end of the tunnel?
Alongside spiralling Angels from Heaven
Carrying the word of Sir Almighty
As he sipped fairy dust on an expensive couch of clouds?
Maybe the Earth parted its rigid legs for you
And you fell through its fractured bones.
Maybe you slipped away – drowned? – in a galaxy of oblivion.
Maybe you can’t hear me.
Maybe the coiled snake severed your hearing when He did your breath,
And maybe God is the liar in the spaces of your words.
And maybe the shattered pills stole your heartbeat
But left you behind.
I hope dying was as you’d envisioned it
And that death is as you’d planned.
I hope non-existence is good to you
And I hope there is nothing where you are.
I hope there are no voices,
No wings maiming your skin,
No floors or fists or fools,
And no you to despise.
Please forgive me.
Poetry = Fancy Crap“You’re such a talented writer,” they say.Poetry = Fancy Crap by xTintedlullabyx
“Your words have meaning,” they believe.
“You bare your soul,” they claim.
“Liar,” I say.
No, no, not you, of course. I’m the liar. Why? Because words aren’t naked, they’re masked by the pixels of your computer screen, of mine. They sleep beneath the ink, buried deep into the paper, hiding behind weird curves old people made up a really long time ago.
I hide behind the pages as much as you hide behind your smile.
“Ihaveaneatingdisorder,” the words stumble through my lips.
“Isortofkindofcut,” I rush, my eyes sticky and flattened against the tipping ground.
“asdfghjkl,” I stutter in a voice that’s barely beyond non-existent.
I write what I can’t say. I write because the truth is as much a work of fiction as the deception, because if you ever want to sell a convincing lie, you should put it into words.
I sing on stages, you know