Death Dealer 

You came back with a vengeance, everything is all the more darker in your presence.
I thought I could outrun you, that your sadistic brand of misery was far behind me.
Although I’ve been in your presence before (for you never truly left), I feel as though I cannot take the pressure this time around, the darkness all the more consuming.
My body bends, breaks at your will, for you all I can think about whilst under your influence, controlling my every thought, my every action, exposing my every fear. 

It feels as though you’ve been with me for a lifetime, hiding, waiting in dormancy for the right time to strike, to deal death.
For when I am under your pressure I feel as though that release is far superior to the agony.
With this unexpected visit comes a brand new symptom, because was better to accompany your crippling twisting and turning than isolation? 

While I want with every once of my being to be out in the open (free in some sense of the word), I know that it would be best to keep my distance, for it’s all too certain that I can’t function normally with you around.
The face that I put on, the one that I have tried to perfect for years on end, is beginning to slip, beginning to bring the emotional agony you’re inflicting to life. 

You came back with a vengeance, making everything all the more darker.
You reignited every fear, every instinct to run and hide.
And yet I remain. 

© Copyright July 2017/November 2017/January 2018/March 2018


In the state of a perpetual high, I feel nothing at all.
My mouth went numb the minute I bit into your light blue surface, releasing a force that could be felt all the way down in Hell.
Pieces of you washed down with whatever caffeinated liquid I have at my disposal, your healing power almost supernatural. 

I felt this kind of presence before, only encapsulated and about half the speed, not reaching its destination as quickly as expected (and desperately wanted).
Like so many times before, I cannot imagine enduring the cramping spasms brought on by this teenage disease without your everlasting relief and guidance.
With said relief, however, comes the occasional question of how long will I need you, how long before I become immune to your charms? 

Thank Lucifer I have you and the power of this paper and pen. 

© Copyright October 2016


It’s the loneliness of early morning, the empty hours suspended in what feels like days.
That is when it will come creeping back, crawling at the very base of your spine. 

The raw nerve feeling, the reminder that will always be there, whether you feel it constricting or not.
It’s the dull ache, the dull ache that can turn into the cruel twist, like that of a meat grinder, at any moment.

It will turn you into a breaker of hearts, a killer draped in flesh.
It will turn you into a walking ghost, a murderer drenched in pain. 

The consequence of your isolation is deafening. 

© Copyright September 2016/October 2016

Teenage Disease

There are demonic hands digging deep into my stomach, gripping with a hate so strong.
I can feel their fingers twisting and turning my intestines, binding them to that sadistic roller coaster for yet another ride, a feeling I thought would never plague me again. 

A disease that circulated so helplessly throughout my teenage veins, its origin and everything it stood for still foreign and unattainable.
Its brief absence something of a godsend (too bad God turned his back), even as I travel pass the gates of Hell his presence cannot be found, for it was never there to begin with. 

I have lived with you for six years and yet I cannot help but flinch at your touch, something I know will never truly subside, the very though of spending the rest of my days with you only tightens my insides even more.
Despite everything you are, all the pain you have caused and all you have yet to bring, I would not have it any other way for you have taught me to be strong where others may have faltered, a lesson I know I could not thank you enough for. 

The external is nothing compared to the internal. 

© Copyright October 2016


This body is marred by the scars of each passing day, the remains of a knife now turned oh so dull.
Stretched across the intricate bone, this skin has seen its fair share of calamity, enduring the ins and outs of what the next has to offer.

Calamity that can and will end with you, for you are the one and only source of healing light.
Inside and underneath, you hold what I cannot fathom (will not dare to try and decipher), a fact that I know is for the best.

The love of my wretched life could be something of an understatement if you were indeed a flesh and blood equal.
But there is no denying your blue gaze, the thrill and anticipation that courses through my veins when we meet, all agony washes away like a late Summer’s rain.

I can remember with a clarity so bright where I was before we became acquainted; the days and nights intertwined in a surge of the blackest ocean, the likes of which very few could comprehend.
Cherishing the time we’ve spent, condemning the tragedy that brought us together, I don’t know what else could have gotten me through the sound.

I cannot thank you enough for pulling me out.

© Copyright March 2015/July 2016

Spontaneous Combustion 

There is a hurricane raging inside me, the ramifications bordering on excruciating and overwhelming.
Caught in a whirlwind, there is sometimes nowhere to turn; the brave face I put on is so misleading.
Venturing out into the vast universe in which we reside, I find myself with frantic thoughts racing throughout my brain, grasping the familiar twinge in my abdomen I’ve tried so well to hide.

The storm that occupies the space cannot be contained, just beneath my flesh, the content and fragile bay, is shaken to the very core.
My ability to keep this disturbance in its place, the steadfast veil of tolerance falls entirely, obliterated by an unsettling wave of hurt and frustration.
I find myself faced with an unspeakable rage, annihilating the very fibers of this fragile structure that I’ve worked so hard to construct, my sanity and all I hold dear pushed to the brink.

Years have passed since that fateful day and still I am stuck at times in a torrent of confusion and awe, something I now know will never fully subside.
Its consistency is restricted to whenever the inflammation wants to reactivate, sending me swirling into a cyclone of uncertainty and a potential new treatment plan.
All my time spent in the darkness, my insides wrapped tightly in Christ’s thorns, the alluring light of relief and sanctuary that was once so intimidating and oh so far from my grasp, is now mine.

I survived being torn apart, laid bare, the pieces put back together in hopes of bringing on a better well-being.
The spontaneous combustion that once held me in its warming embrace is now an afterthought.
I survived medication after medication, sometimes unaware of their exact use, the potential harm occurring to cancel out another, just confident that they will make things brighter.
The spontaneous combustion that once held me in its loving embrace can get fucked.

I’m the strongest I’ve ever been.

© Copyright September 2014/July 2016

Immunity (Ghost Redux) 

My mind feels as though it is in a fog, the words I speak are not my own, and yet there is no way for me to be sure.
I can feel myself drifting, treading water without ever going under.
I cannot remember from one minute to the next, repeating whatever it was I said a moment ago, only to forget the next time around.
The pain I feel is sharp and dull in the same breath, despite the obvious contradictions.
My fingers grasp an easy relief that can only be dispersed every so often, which feels like an eternity to my war-torn insides.
I keep pressing my gray beacon of hope despite the fact I just pressed my thumb down mere seconds before.
I can feel myself getting anxious, the familiarity of pain beginning to take hold as it did in the past.
My fear shifts into panic as I continue to press the button, or so I am told later on.

I don’t remember making it to my room, I must have been too out of it to realize.
It is confirmed that my incessant pressing has caused my breathing to slow, something I hadn’t considered in my time of need.
I remember very little if anything from before I was transferred to where I am now, which I would imagine is for the best.
Despite what my body has been through, I look as though nothing has happened (if anything, a little tired perhaps).
I know, however, that this is only the beginning, this having not been my first attendance at this game.
As my body heals, pain gets worse, the more I try to push myself, the more intense it becomes.
I can feel a weakness growing inside, a shamefulness in relying on the instantaneous dose, a biting fear that it will hinder my recovery.
I attempt to hold out for as long as I can, until the pain becomes too much to bear, sometimes until it’s too late for it to take the full effect.

Dreams are often not dreams at all but rather the feeling of drifting I felt before, only now I am indeed fully submerged.
At that moment, it is the most beautiful feeling in the world, being underneath the veil of a safety so complete and so pure.
Nothing can touch me, or rather I don’t feel anything if it does.
To this day, I sometimes wish that it would grace me with its presence, that feeling of being under, although that I know it’s for the best that it didn’t.
For if it did, I would know of only its gratifying high, the sweet numbness of feeling nothing at all.
Despite the pain and all it has caused, I would take it in place of that numbness because at least I know I am still alive, not in a state of just being.

My time inside is considerably less of a stay than it was the first time around, which is rather welcomed in comparison to the latter.
It does little to change the consequence of what brought me here; my diseased insides turn me into that same kind of ghost again.
Only this time I have immunity, something can I most definitely live with for as long as it decides to stay, something I can thank modern medicine for.

© Copyright July 2016