Aug 11th

hurt them, hurt them, white is black
Hurt Them, Hurt Them, White Is Black
HURT THEM, HURT THEM, WHITE IS BLACK
HOLY FUCK THE DEMON’S BACK!

Wreckage twisted tiles are curved; the trickle feed of wine absurd. Cannot stall me; gate not locked; just because the booze has stopped. Tonic chronic? FUCKING WRONG! You’ve held this rage for far too long. Build it, mould it, boiling clay, blistered fingers guitar play. Not for rhythm, not for praise, just to ruin wood’s fine glaze! To rust that bastards fucking strings, to gunk the tuning pegs with skin. Smash! BREAK! Never too late! Nearly Completed? DASH IT’S BRAINS! Transcendental? Fucking Meeeee! I break out nasty, spurts of glee! Hurt your lovers, hurt your friends, hurt your family, then it ends.

Your silly faith in failing saints, one day just man and demon mates. Every other locked away, forever fearful of the day, forever fearful of the day, forever fearful of the FUCKING day *Cracks own face* What’s on that day?
I cannot say.

Good intentioned fucking child. Poor man, you silly, you can’t be mild, can’t be pliant, can’t feel joy, you’re my friend and only toy. I’ll pick you up like a spiked stick, and thrash you upon gorgeous bits. Snap your fingers, break your twigs, your bark will bleed, I’ll have my fix.

Time’s up! Over! Back to hell. My phone is on just ‘giz a bell. I’m sure you will, the saint’s seen end, you’re all alone, I’m your last friend. Stockholm syndromes swallowed you, you’ve wrecked your life, let’s times that two. (How could the human race ever fucking accept you?) *Spits*

eventually you see
there only can be
one last small acorn
one last great tree

The eyes outside the paper eat the knowledge with a spoon, the hand that writes the story always ends the page in doom.

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