It will prick and poke until you release. Through this exhalation of blood, the thorn shows you how to live. It will bring you pain, in order to bring you to life. It will bring you death, in order to bring you inner sight. The teaching’s and reaching’s will suffocate all which you may have thought you may have known. Another surrender. Another ideal turned under. Another sight within the eye’s might. Another breath within a stolen death. Grievances are the seeds of growth. Plant your seeds, allow your sow to grow. Never allow anything or anyone to hinder what you render: especially you. All of your deeds will be forgiven and forgotten, as long as the words you speak and seek are not rotten.
Author: ggkalfas
G.G. Kalfas is an American born author and publisher. He is also the noted author of many books, which encompass his experiences within life and death, as these experiences are displayed through the subject matter of his short stories. His intention for writing these books, is to display the importance of philosophy and psychology, as they play an integral part of the development contained within the experience of the human condition. Within his development, G.G. was compelled towards music, poetry, art, philosophy, and psychology. He was also the lead guitarist in a Houston based metal band, as well as the owner of an underground art gallery. He now spends his time writing about the darkness within the human expression, while exploring the hidden knowledge contained within the depths of life, death, and what may or may not exist beyond human consciousness.
A Chance
A chance to breathe again. A chance to see with my own eyes again. A chance to be myself again. There are not enough chances within this time to do anything over again. Nothing can be undone. It is only you which becomes unraveled. Another time then. Another situation devoured by false memories and grievances. Too many symptoms; not enough rendering. The transparency of the negative shines through. You are here, you are there; everywhere at once. Nowhere in the now. How could it be any other way? Other than your way…my way…no way. A chance to speak with my own tongue again. The words are blocked, along with my path. Endure the blockage, in order to gather enough strength to move it out of the way. Out of my way. A chance to be again.
The Withered Have Been Delivered
The withered have been delivered and denied. A quench needs to be satisfied, and devoured. Thoroughly devoured. The certain demise of what lies between the thighs. The orchids will no longer bloom for you. Seething teeth shred the denial upon your tongue. More words wasted than swallowed. Gagging on rotted remembered memories. Swallowing the prided prize of shame. The gender will surrender with absolute splendor. All cocks and cunts are the same. Wanting. Needing. The others fulfillment. A lost fulfillment. Given away. Lost within a disdained charity. Clarity was never part of the agreement. You signed the contract on your own free will. There is no point in crying over spilt blood. You have really beautiful teeth. It always looks good if you smile when you are in pain. This way no one will ever be able to tell you are dying slowly from within. Just put on the mask you usually wear during the holidays. When the pain is at its worst. No one will ever be able to tell the difference. Sadism has become one of the most common serviced goods nowadays. Not many people are buying, but everyone is selling it. The world is filled with pieces of shit who are always trying to sell you something.
“TVIK” The Voodoo Industrial Komplex
Song: TVIK
Artist: The Voodoo Industrial Komplex
copyright © 2019 The Voodoo Industrial Komplex/ G.G. Kalfas
Bland Flesh
Flesh from the past tastes differently in the present. It has lost its freshness. Stale leftovers. Bland flesh. No flavor to savor. The memories play tricks on the mind…and on the cock. A physical annihilation within the leftovers. Spread out. Kegels needed. Clean out the freezer. No use for the same. You have always been a timid swallower. It wont bite…it just spits. Your life is one dismally contorted hologram. Projecting your romantically, tragically, and fantastically designed life of the trash you truly are. One threshold of abandoned spasms after the other. The boundaries of your maniacal and tragic ways knows no bounds. Only for the sake of your own ruin do you hesitate to finish it off. Belief can be lethal, especially when it comes to believing in something which does not exist. Something such as yourself.
Acceptance
The fickle flame burns my name across your heart…flowers I gave…hours you saved…love was made…right from the start…you could not do for me…what I did for you…receiving of the acceptance…of what you already knew…catching love by setting it free…ours was never meant to be…you could not see the me…who was right in front of you…there was nothing more you could do…the tears ran away from your eyes…just as a child who is in trouble would…my hands did the same with your thighs…your trouble is your childhood…or the lack of one…all which was done and not done…made you rid of me…before you could actually see the real me…no more treatment for your torment…the hand has been given enough to receive…faith in ecclesiastical stars and topless bars…there is nothing more for you to achieve.
G.G. Kalfas 