A physical love letter from your life; addressed to whom you have now become. A child’s hands are delicate and inquisitive. These curious qualities slowly rot away, as we carelessly enter through life’s threshold. Never again will we experience such definitive wonder, questioning, or certainty. Do you really think it is that important to experience these qualities? At certain times, yes; but these times are not sufficient enough to bring forth the inadequateness of an underlying longing for death. It is important to fulfill your nightmares, so the glares of the daylight will fade away into the obscurity, which is your wasted life. Perhaps a wasted life is not necessarily a waste. What is the defining point of not wasting one’s life? Monetary gains? Owning property? Something material and tangible? None of that external waste means anything within these pages. You should know that by now. I consider a life to be wasted, when one lives their life for another, and not for themselves. Life is filled with human waste such as this. Life is only a waste, if you use your time not following your inner guidance. Most of the others are stuck living in survival mode, never finding a way to follow their inner guidance, as many of these others do not know of its existence.
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L.C.G.
The days are now blending into one another, just like you and I once did.
Spiritual Crimes
You knew the truth this entire time. One can become blind, to that in which they do not want to see. Are you able to see me now? I have been righht in front of you this entire time. I am a physical manifestation of your inner expression. A truth which can never be denied, nor satisfied. I will forever linger within your yearnings. A desire tasted, but never wasted. You have been wasteful plenty of times. Almost to the point of being guilty of spiritual crimes. Remember; I do not hold judgement against others. Yet, I will hold their hearts right before their eyes, and shred it to pieces, just as I did yours before your eyes. Simon says: you lost. So now you can go fuck off!
To Be Nurtured
Dig deep. Look for it underneath the skin. In search of the remnants of what was previously lived. The new skin is not that comfortable. Not as thick as the skin previously worn. Give it time to callus. Given enough time, it just might suffocate. I have been called every name in the book. It’s funny how I was the one whom authored the book. It is a slow process. So slow it will peel the skin straight from the facia. In a strange way, we are all searching for something to connect with. Unfortunately, purpose and meaning cannot survive without a connection to be nurtured from.
Inevitably
The anxiety might set in, as the nausea will soon make an appearance. One may ask themselves; is it worth it? No; it rarely ever is. One may also ask themselves; how did I get here? You unknowingly brought yourself here, or life quietly brought you to this arrangement, as there is usually a purpose and means for the unexplainable. Nevertheless, you are now here. The only way to heal this wound is to kill every last one of those mother fuckers. Not literally, but in the metaphorical sense (eye wink).
Necrotic Whispers
It is as delicate and solitary, as the night is dark and indulgent. My mind. You have prodded at it enough. Callused membrane. Futility exists, when trying to comprehend its contents. There is no use to indulge yourself within the realms of honesty and purity. There are no thoughts for you to reflect upon, or to bathe within. The sweet sad notes of your voice; lingering and tingling within the shards of broken glass you swallowed. There is no future here for you to dwell within. There only exists the past of consecrated misfortunes and prior devastations, which will only know your broken words and thoughts, for your consideration. The tingling of shattered nerves, seem to scratch and itch within themselves. Ready to ignite the soulmates and the soul’s fates. You were speaking empty words, with a native tongue, within the singularity of tempting the masses. Your people. Sweating and wetting upon your unguarded fleshy mind. A doormat for strangers to walk over. Welcome. Come on in. Make yourself at home. The song within your beaten heart, will never be sung nor heard. The stinging within your words, will forever linger upon your dripping tongue. Another shattered and lathered bedtime story. Waiting for me to tuck you in; tucking you back into your coma. Time flies when you are unconscious, as this is the best way to travel. Dead weight as carry-on luggage. Dead weight for others to carry-on. An inconsideration you will always consider. I can hear your necrotic whispers in my ears. You thought they would sound sexy in my ears. My ears have heard it all.
