some dude's writing blog

Encased in bloodied hands is a heart

Gristle and offal are spat out

Teeth sink in again

Bestial tearing of the organ

Bloodied hands clutching while his head jerks back

The cadaver lies not too far from the scene

He chews carefully and rejects what’s inedible once more

This innate need has been with him since birth

Dismember the dead and consume as you may

It’s ghoulish and ghastly, absurd and awful

I just wish I could pull the metaphorical plug on all of this. I’ve lived the same fucked up shit for much longer than I’d consider myself comfortable with. 

snuffed out

reignited 

scarred 

running from past mistakes

For once in his life, he was presentable. No crusty blood on his face nor bangs gathered in the center of his face. No tattered skinny jeans nor dirty boots. 

At the same time, it was obvious that he’s out of his element. What confidence he built up being himself just wasn’t there. He was more awkward, unsure... Constantly fumbling over his words. In a sense, his imposing factor was flat-out missing. 

And I’m sorry all that kinda shit happened to you, kid. You’re still standing tough though. That’s good. You’re here with us in the present. A real fucking trooper.

You don’t have to keep all that inside. Trust me, I know people, and they’re on better terms with everything after acknowledging and talking about it. Be as vague or clear-cut as you want. I’m not asking for a confession, just confirmation. It takes years for people to want to discuss this kinda thing. 

And quit it with the “I’m not people” mindset. I understand. It’s inferiority and an identity crisis wrapped into one package. You’re a miracle and a man and you’re beyond mortal comprehension. Don’t worry too much about it. Or what others think. 

Don’t even fucking LOOK at me. 

It was so cold out there and I needed shelter and you fucking  R U I N E D  me.

Cruel laughter, holding me in place and commanding me to watch.

Torn and displaced and wondering why it was me of all people.

I was VIOLATED and DEFLOWERED and DECIMATED because you mourned a little girl who was never there to begin with. 

Bloody nightgown, wet thighs, gutted spirit.

I don’t want to remember.

I thought I could trust you.

Now... Where do I begin? My initials are L.J.B. I’ve been involved with the church for years now. I was... Recruited, more or less. I was 29 at the time. Barely scraping by. I was with the wrong crowd at the time. Crime to stay alive. To provide for my daughter. 

growing up is establishing self-morals and realizing they’re different from that of others

growing up is finding yourself but still feeling hollow 

growing up is scary

leaving it all to the final hour

can’t care for myself

can’t care about myself

i used to be so good at memorizing things

but the flesh is of no use 

i never got the chance to be in the boy scouts

and i dont know how to tie a noose

judge me by the flesh 

but the flesh is of no use 

i have no money

so i cant afford to involve myself in drug abuse 

i feel far past worthless but that’s alright 

i know im not supposed to win this fight 

hard for me to fall asleep at night

cuz i got too many fuckin problems 

rattling up inside my head

my teeth arent how they should look

hell, my face aint how it should look

nor is any other aspect of my body 

judge me by the flesh

but the flesh is of no use

i never got the chance to be in the boy scouts

and i dont know how to tie a noose

judge me by the flesh

but the flesh is of no use

i have no money

gloves cant hide the decay of the hands beneath forever

optic enhancements cant make you see everything

archaic ways of speaking cant make anyone be more interested

why do you still have all these old cds? 

what about these old worn-out denim vests? 

youre old and worn out just like em 

but you still insist on trying to live in a realm that youve lost all touch with

They distinctly remember it all no matter how bad they actually want to suppress it. Their bright amber eyes had met with the fear-filled baby blues of an older man. He wasn’t entirely defenseless, or at least he looked like he could still throw a punch or two. They had broken in to a seedy little bar that had yet to open up for the day while the others were causing utter havoc. Of course, it was a sort of shoot first and ask questions later sort of moment, but the old man didn’t actually do anything wrong. 

“There’s blood on your hands now, kid,” one of their, er, ‘compadres’ spoke. “It’ll only get worse with time.”