my new poems

This may be more first drinking writing. Slowly coming off of being drunk and it still looks good. Thank you, Jim Beam.

My heart pounding in my chest,
The beating drowning out all sound.
I grab my bottle of Jim Beam
And take a quick swig,
My body shivering as the burn
Rushes down to my stomach.
I open my eyes and take a deep breath,
Feeling my body start to relax,
But it isn't enough yet.
My body starts to rock,
Back and forth, back and forth.
I bring the bottle back to my lips
And tip it up, enjoying the savory burn
Of the Devil's Cut couring its way
Through my ever so tense body.
The constant thud of my heart
Dulls out and dies away,
Letting the sound of music
Once again fill my ears.
I lift the bottle to my eyes,
Staring at the 90 proof poison
That I seem to love oh so much.
Leaning my head back, I pour
Some more like a dehydrating
Man drinking water for the first
Time in days, weeks, months.
The rich burn no longer
Sends shivers through my body
But instead dulls the senses.
My body responds to commands
Slower than they did a few
Minutes ago before my last
Swig of my new obsession.
But it still isn't enough
So I think "how much can
One more sip of America's
Finest hurt me now?"
Bringing the bottle back up,
I realize that it is lighter
Than I would have thought
It would for how much
I had to drink so far.
Upon inspection, I notice that
The bottle is less than half
Empty, but how could that be?
I look at the time and see
That almost two hours have passed
And that I became lost in my
Near intoxicated state but my body
Is still tense, still not relaxed.
So I take one more swig
Of the straight bourbon whiskey
And lick my lips as the elixir
Rushes through my veins,
Causing my brain and body to slow
Down to what feels like a crawl.
Every thought, every memory of today
Feels like nothing but useleass
Information that I am sure to forget.
I laugh for no reason that I can
Think of but something is funny.
I must have reached my limit,
I must be drunk by now.
Things are slowly spinning,
My lips feel like they are numb.
My reactions feel slower than
That of a sloth, but I feel fine.
Either I have become immune
To being drunk or I haven't
Had enough to drink from the bottle.
But I stop to think, thinking while drunk?
What drunk person thinks? I must
Still be sober yet my body tells
Of a different, slower, disoriented story.
Turning my head, everything is a blur
Making me laugh even more
As I take one last sip of my Beam.
My body and mind are relaxed
Beyond anything I can imagine.
But a sadness tinges my mood
As I stare at the empty bottle.
Clumsily, I place the empty bottle
Next to the other empty bottles
I have used as a medicine,
As a relaxing way to forget a day.
So now I stare at my walls
And feel my now relaxed body
Tingle as I smile more than
I have all day and thank
The magic of the Devil's Cut.

This "confession" is a work of fiction. If it wasn't, I would not be sitting here watching a Kevin Hart stand up.

As I write this confession of sorts,
I can hear the sirens in the distance.
So with what little time I have left,
I figure it is time to tell the world
The truth of what I have become.

As a child, I have always been fascinated
With the thought of killing, of murder.
I read about serial killers, wars,
Genocidal dictators and mass murders.
I read articles and stories until I dreamt
About them each and every night.
Imagine, a seven year old talking
And drawing things about chemical
Attacks on the innocent, nuclear
Devestation to prove a point,
Executions of the masses out of boredom.
Like a sick fetish that should have been
Hidden, forgotten about but never was.
My teachers always asked if everything
At home was fine, in which I always lied.
I admit that there was some abuse
At home, dished out by one
Of my mother's exs but I never told.
I was told it was because my brothers
And I were bad kids and needed
To be punished for our behavior.
I guess this is where my anger
Started to show itself more and more.
Fighting back against the beatings
Only made it worse for me but I felt
Like I had to stop them somehow.
I was hit with different objects,
I was pushed down a flight of stairs,
I has a bar of soap forced down
My throat as the abuser pinned
Me, a seven year old, down on the floor.
But it was more than abuse,
Being poor and homeless more times
Than you could count takes its toll
On the mental stability of someone's mind.
Anyway, my fetish for violence kind of
disappeared for a few years, or just
Hid itself behind doors in my mind
That I could not open yet.

It resurfaced around the age of eleven.
Take note that there were instances
Where my anger has gotten me into
Some trouble and fights between
The years but nothing too gruesome,
Except for when my friend pushed
Me down and an open ring of a binder
when through my right palm.
In his horror, I started laughing
Like the sight of my own blood
Was one of the funniest things I have
Ever seen, and at the moment, it was.
Staring into my friend's eyes,
I brought my bleeding palm to my face
And started to smear my blood
All over, laughing wildly as he ran.
So back to my story, eleven years old
And in a fight against my youngest brother
My first reaction was to kill him.
Nothing brutal or bloody, but kill nonetheless.
So in a state of rage, I wrapped my hands
Around his neck and began to squeeze.
In that state of rage, I felt something,
Something I never imagined I would have.
I felt a thrill, small but still noticeable.
Just staring as his eyes widen
Made me squeeze even tighter.
But I was pulled off of him
Before I could find out if I
Was capable of killing him.
We had our fights and each one
Ended with me trying to kill him.
Either choking, blunt for trauma,
Or just beating his head in with a fist.
Anything to end his life.

One late night when I was twelve,
I was reading as my mother had
A party with some friends.
A friend of her's knelt down beside me,
Looked me in the eyes and said,
"There is an 80% chance that you will
Become a serial killer in your later
Years. You're smart, quiet, and have
A horrible temper. It all mixes into
The psyche of a serial killer."
Never has someone just bluntly
Tell me that I could grow up to kill.
I took it as a compliment. I still do.

Fourteen years old, I was in a private
School, Milton Hershey school to be exact.
I hated it. I hated the people in it.
I wanted each and every person dead.
Each day was a struggle to keep hold
On my anger, that inner rage.
But one day, I lost that hold.
With money saved and materials scavenged,
I made pipe bombs and planned to destroy
The school and everyone inside.
Just to prove a point, just to get away.
The day I planned to go through with
My first mass murder, I was caught.
But instead of being arrested,
I was hospitalized in a psych ward.
Here I was, living in a hospital
Being medicated for hallucinations,
Schizophrenia, hearing things,
Bipolarism, multiple personalities,
And of course, my anger.

Countless doctors, more pills
Than an addict, and a sedated state.
This is how it was for awhile.
In a year and a half, I was hospitalized
Four times, put on more pills,
Psychologically evaluated numerous
Times, placed in therapeutic residentials,
And constantly monitored foster homes.
Again, I had some minor altercations
But nothing more than a fist fight.
Until I met her, the first of many,

Eighteen years old, I skinned my ex.
My first murder was not a small animal
But an actual human being
And I did not want it to stop.
I relished in her blood, her screams,
Her agony as ripped her apart.
The monster that I had locked up,
Drugged and chained inside
Was woken up and could not be tamed.

It was hard to keep it calm at first
But then it became nothing but
A blood thirsty animal that I
Was happy to let run wild and free.
In the years following my first
Kill, I have slaughtered groups
Of innocent people, I have killed
People as sacrifices for my god,
I have taken my revenge on those
That wronged me, I killed
In a moment of pure lust.
I even dreamt of killing only
To kill as I slept next to someone.
Years have brought nothing but
Layers of dried blood on my hands.
It fulfilled the hunger of the monster
That I lost myself to. It brought happiness
Pure happiness, to my life for the first time.
Quenched a hate that haunted me.

But I became sloppy as the years
Dragged on. I left bloody prints
Over the bodies, along the walls.
I left my tools of the trade
At my works of art. I disregarded
Every precaution every serial killer
Should have taken, I threw out the
Metaphorical window but did not care.
My rage overcame any sense I had left.
It controlled me and did not care
If it got me caught or killed.

My last kill, my downfall, mistakes
Were made and cost me.
In a ritual, I left a note with my name
Signed in blood, laying next to a burnt
Body of a missing girl. They found me.
They have found the monster that has
Plagued the country for almost five years.

They stormed my temporary apartment
Building, knocking down doors to find me.
In a panic, I grabbed a few things:
My Bowie knife, a gas mask, a bullet proof
Vest, a couple of guns, some ammo,
And a laptop. With all this packed,
I ran out the back, running onto a bus
And not looking back. But the police were
Tipped off about my whereabouts.

So that leads us to here, now.
The sirens are blaring and lights
Are flashing through the windows.
Someone is speaking over a megaphone,
Telling me to drop everything
And come out with my hands up.
This is it. This is the end of my spree.
I want to fulfill one last dream,
And that is to listen to "Free Bird"
As I die today, like the ending of
"The Devil's Rejects", great movie.
Alright, my gas mask is on,
My vest is on, my knife hidden,
And my guns are ready.

I just shot a few rounds out of a window
Just to get them ready to kill. I want
Them to feel like I feel. I want them
To unleash their rage and kill me.

I believe it worked. They just threw
Tear gas into the room. They're getting
Ready to storm through the door.

My guns are down and my knife is ready.
I hope to at least take a couple
Of them down before I am killed.
Just a couple is all I am asking for.

So family, friends, those that read this,
Do not say the same ol', same ol'
About me. Don't tell reporters
That I was always nice, kept to myself,
And was a friendly person. It was
All an act to get to where I am today.
I was always the monster that
I am today. Remember that.

Time to go and lie in wait. I want
To surprise them as they burst into
This gas filled room. These are my last
Words. See you in Disneyland,

Vamp Benjii.

Blue Eyes

I stare at the eyeless corpse,
Tearing away bits of its flesh
With both teeth and blade,
Chewing on the chunks of flesh
Before spitting it out into the dark.
I feel the blood trickle down
My face and through my beard.
The still warm, metallic fluid
Awakens the beast I keep locked up.
I slide my hands up to the corpse's
Head, cradling it gently as I tilt
My head to stare deeper into
The empty, bloodied eye sockets.
Growling, I smash the head against
The floor repeatedly, relishing
In the sound of fracturing skull
And brain matter hitting a solid object.
With one final slam, I let go of the head,
Caved in and leaking, as I sit up.
Just another nameless victim.
Just another passerby that laid eyes
On the wrong person, the wrong creature.

Her eyes, her pale blue, crystal light
Eyes were what decided her fate.
I wanted them for my own.
Her dyed black hair flowing down
Past her shouders would sometimes
Whip behind her as the wind
Picked up on that cold, winter's day.
As he eyes fell onto mine, she smiled.
A beautiful, warm smile that seemed
To melt the snow around her.
Her pale skin stood out against
Her black hoodie and tight black jeans,
Giving her this glow that made
Her seem to be able to light up the night.
As she walked by, time stopped.
Our eyes met, my ice cold heart
Stopped for an instant, my mind
Turned into nothing but mush.
And as time seemed to start
Back up, I knew that she was
To die by my hands tonight.
As she walked past, I pulled
My hood up and followed.
Not too close but close enough
To keep her in my line of sight.
I kept my head low just in case
She would turn back and spot me.
Looking up, I saw her turn a corner,
My pace quickened to keep up.
I looked around the corner to spot
Her slip into her front door,
Her eyes caught mine before
Shutting the door behind her.
Reaching into my pocket,
I took hold of a pocket knife
And walked to her door.
Straightening my hoodie, I knocked
On her door and took a step back.
She opened up and blinked
In confusion before flashing
That beautiful smile of hers.
Before she could say a word,
I shouldered my way in, knocking
Her down onto the floor.
I slammed the door shut with a foot
As I watched her scramble back,
Her gorgeous eyes now filled with fear.
I lunged on top of her and pinned
Her down with my knees,
A hand on her throat and the other
Holding my pocket knife
To her face, pressing it to her cheek.
I began to choke her as I pressed
The tip of the knife to the corner
Of her left eye and pushed,
Feeling the blade slip behind her eye.
My grip on her throat tightened
As I popped her eye out of its socket.
Her legs flailed and kicked as pain
Coursed through her pale body.
Dropping the knife, I grabbed her head
And with a violent twist, broke her neck.
She went still and I let go of her neck,
My hand leaving a massive bruise.
Angrily, I reached up and dug my fingers
Into her right eye, pulling it out.
Looking at it, I dropped it next
To her left eye, both staring up at me.

Now here we are, her corpse
Cooling down now and starting
Rigor mortis, chunks of flesh missing.
And her crystal, pale blue eyes on the floor,
Staring up at me but now lifeless
And cold, non judging, non feeling.
Staring at the man with a blood stained
Face and bits of flesh in his beard.
Those eyes are mine now, all mine

Intersection Crucifixion (temporary title)

Hood over my eyes, I march
Behind him, smiling to myself
As cars come to a screeching
Halt. People mumble in confusion
And some yell out questions
Too obvious to answer.
The man in front of me
Is shirtless, wearing a crown
Of razor wire, and carrying a cross
Down the middle of this street.
In my left hand, I carry a flaming
Torch. In my right, a sack full
Of instruments for the ritual.
My robes scrape across the asphalt
As we make our way down
To the intersection for all to see.
A clear day for a crucifixion.
Sun shining, small patches
Of white clouds, blue sky,
And a clear street. Yes,
A fine day for a crucifixion.
We enter the center of the
Intersection and the man whimpers
As he lays the cross down onto
The street. Drivers honk their
Horns as they impatiently watch.
The man lays down onto the cross,
Spreading his arms to the side
As I stand over him and watch,
My smile never leaving my face.
I drop both the sack and torch
Onto the road, kneeling down to root
Through the sack. Finding
What I need, I step over to his
Left arm and kneel down once
More. Placing the tip of a rail spike
Onto his wrist, I raise a hammer
Above my head and bring it down
Onto the head of the spike.
The sound of metal on metal
Is drowned out by the man's
Scream of pain as blood sprays
Onto my face runs from his wrist.
I raise the hammer and once
Again bring it down onto
The spike, his screams louder
And mixed with pedestrians
Watching in horror. I laugh
As another strike of the hammer
Comnects, driving the spike home.
Blood begins to pool under
The cross, the wood slowly
Soaking it in. I rise and walk
Over to the man's right arm
And he flinches. Staring down
At him, he relaxes and lays
His arm back down onto the wood.
Once again, I place the tip
Of the spike against his arm
And raise my hammer above
My head. I bring the hammer
Down hard, enough that
The metal on metal sound
Is heard over the screams
Of those watching and
The crucified. Fresh blood
Masks my face as I laugh
Out loud, enjoying the suffering,
Enjoying the pain I am giving.
To my surprise, the spike
Is already through his arm
And into the wood of the cross.
The pool of blood is wider,
Thicker than it was only
A couple of minutes ago.
Another driver honks their
Horn and starts to yell at me,
Telling me to move my circus
Act out of the way. Turning
To face him, I lift my hammer
And throw it at her. It crashes
Through her windshield and
Shatters her jaw, blood spilling
As she looks in disbelief.
I turn back to the man on
The cross and walk over
To his head. He's pale from
Blood loss already, my robes
Soaking in the warm blood that
Was spilled onto the road.
I grabbed the top of the cross
And lift it up, heaving it to stand
On its supports. It stands
In the middle of the instersection,
Raining blood down onto
The asphalt. No need to nail
His feet. He isn't going anywhere.
I walk over to the sack on
The street, reaching inside
And finding my new favorite
Tool. A small roll of razor wire.
I loop it and walk over to
The man, staring up at him
As I whip him across the abdomen
With the razor wire. Deep
Incisions awaken his screaming,
Fresh cries echoing off of the
Walls of office buildings.
The crowd around the intersection
Is silent as they watch on
In horror. A modern day crucifixion
And torture taking place before
Their eyes. They stare in disbelief.
They stare in anger but don't move.
I whip the man again, old incisions
Deepening as fresh ones open.
Blood runs down his pale front,
Staining his pants as his cries
Begin to quiet down. I reach
Into an incision and grab his
Stomach, pulling it out with
A yank. He coughs up blood
As his head goes limp, acid
And bile mixing with the blood
Running down the front.
Dropping the stomach, I whip
Him once more with the wire
And leave it where the blades
Dug in. I walk back over to
The sack and bring out a bottle
Of gasoline. I pick up my torch
And walk back over to the man.
He looks at me weakly, the life
In his eyes fading fast. I open
The bottle of gasoline and
Pour it down over his head,
Letting it run down over his
Body and to the ground.
I toss the now empty bottle
To the side and bring the torch
Up, placing the flame against
His neck. Instantly he bursts
Into flames, quickly becoming
A beacon of light, even drowning
Out the sun on this clear day.
His screams are mixed with
The crackling of flames, wood
Burning and flesh splitting.
People watching start to cry,
Not even knowing who the man
Was but because they fear
What has happened today.
The man yells one last time
Before the fire burns his airways
Shut and charring his lungs.
Flesh now black and charred,
I watch as his jaw falls and
Lands into the pool of blood.
The gasoline mixed in the blood
Ignites, making it look like
The man is burning over
A pit to Hell. I bow my head
Before turning away and walking
Off back down the road,
Carrying the torch.

Look, this site is dying, especially in the poetry area. If you want to post your writings and get feedback, go to darkpoetry.com and sign up. Hopefully I'll see some of you there. Others, **** off.

Ride in Peace

Six years.
Six long years and yet
It still doesn't feel real to me.
You were one of the few
That I thought would live on
Forever.
You were one of the nicest
People I have ever had
The privilege to call friend.
Hell, you were more than a friend,
A brother of sorts.
We've only known each other
For three years but you
Became one of my closest
Friends.
We were complete opposites:
You were nice where I
Am an *******.
You were a biker while
I was a skater.
You could light
Up a whole room where
I devoured the light.
But yet you didn't care.
You always listened
When I had a problem,
Whether it be miniscule
Or major.
You were there to help
My cousin and I through
My Aunt's death...only four
Months before yours.
**** that year.
I wasn't prepared for it.
No one was.
I was finally starting to
Let my aunt's passing
Stop bothering me when
I received a message from
My cousin.
"Cory is dead."
What? Cory is dead?
It had to be some cruel,
****ed up joke.
"Are you joking?
It isn't funny."
I refreshed my myspace
Page repeatedly until
I received another message.
"Not joking. He passed away
This morning."
My world stopped.
How?
How could you, possibly
The purest person I
Have ever met, just
Suddenly pass away?
We talked just a few days
Before and you were
Healthy, happy and alive.
"...what happened?
How did he die?"
Another minute or two
Of refreshing.
"Don't know for sure.
His fiancee said that
She woke up and found
Him dead."
We were later informed that
You went to a concert with
Your family and fiancee
And some "hardcore dancer"
Punched you in the back
Of the head.
Oh how I hated moshing
Since.
My mind was racing yet
Wasn't.
My mind finally settled
On the memory of the first
Time we met.

You were coming over
To meet my cousin
Who I was just hanging
Out with after ditching school.
You drove up in your
Haggard looking truck
And I knew it was going
To be a fun time.
You grabbed your bike
And rode it off of your truck,
Telling my cousin to
Ride your bike as well.
I chimed in, finding it funny.
We kept telling her to ride
It, even all the way down
To the skate park.
You showed off a bit,
Kindly replying to the kids
That kept telling you to do
A backflip.
From the skate park
We went to the mall just
To walk around aimlessly.
Joking, window shopping,
Exchanging stories of
Crazy things we've done.
We were there until
The mall closed for the night
But that didn't make us
Leave.
We stayed in the parking
Lot for about an hour,
Still joking and exchanging
Stories as you rode your bike
Around and abused your truck.
And that is when my pissed
Off mother called my cousin
Looking for me.
Boy did we haul ass
Back to my house.
I laughed when I was told how
Bad you felt about keeping
Me out that late on a
School night.
Still funny to this day.

The day of your funeral
Was hard.
My second funeral of
Someone I cared about
In four months.
I wasn't prepared for it.
We stepped into the
Church and there was
Your body, laying there.
You looked like you were
Just sleeping.
I waited there for a couple
Of minutes, hoping that
You would sit up and
Yell "Got yous!"
Nothing.
The service went on
And we drove to the cemetary.
I was fine.
I was strong.
They laid your casket down,
Ready to put you underground.
A few words were said and
Roses laid upon your casket.
As you were lowered,
Flogging Molly's "Laura"
Was played.
I lost it.
I wasn't fine.
I wasn't strong.
I cried as I watched the casket
Get lower, slowly
Vanishing from view.
The sudden realization
That this wasn't some cruel
Joke hit so hard.
We were the last to leave.
The last to say our
Goodbyes once more.

Six years.
I still don't want to
Believe that it is true.
I miss you, my friend.
I'll make sure to stop
By your resting place.
I'll bring a Monster for you
And I'll cath you up with
Things.
Ride in Peace, Cory Simons.

And you've won the title of worlds longest poem.

At least I won something.

Stabbing
Hacking
Slashing
Tearing
Ripping
Gutting
Mutilating
Devouring
Skinning
Beheading
Breaking
None of these feel right
When it comes to killing you.
I want it to hurt beyond
Human comprehension.
To be the cruelest, most
Gruesome thing ever laid eyes on.
I want your screams to echo
For eternity in pain.
I want your blood to stain
And never come clean from
These walls.
I want you dead within
Second but yet alive
To experience the act of murder.
I want to destroy every bit
Of your mind, body and soul.
I want to force feed you your
Own intestines, making even
You sick of your own self.
Oh to bury my blade deep into
Your skull repeatedly only
Calms the need ever slightly.
No, I want this to last for days,
Hell, maybe even months.
I don't want to stop until
Every last shred of your life
Is nothing but scraps of shit.
Give me the chance to show
You how much I care with
An ever sharp knife and a blood
Stained hammer.
Let me show you the love
And attention I can give you
With hanging chains
And meat hooks.
If only you knew how much
Rage and love you create
Inside of me.
If only you knew that I watch
You, waiting to kill you when
The time is just right.
**** I want your name chiseled
In stone where your legacy
Will live on until weather
Erodes it away.
I want your throat in my hand,
Still warm with your blood.
I want your eyes leaking
Fluids in their sockets
As you scream in fear.
I want your abdomen stretched
And empty, torn open by my
Finger nails.
I want your skull bludgeoned
Beyond recognition, crushed
By multiple blunt objects.
Oh I want your ****ing life
Ended by my own hands.
Soon.
Soon is all I can ****ing promise.

No, that last post was not about a certain ex *****.

Been too long brother. And yeah!

Get a 360 and play some Gotham City Imposters with me.

Help me.
Save me from myself.
I can't take the voices
Or the shadows or
Wanting to die anymore.
I want it to end.
I don't trust myself anymore.
I no longer even hide
Behind a mask because
I no longer care.
I black out and find
Fresh cuts along my arms,
Discarded pills and bottles
Of alcohol on my floor.
I can't sleep some days.
All I can do is sleep other days.
I feel so lost inside my own
****ed up mind that I am
Sure that there is no help for me.
I can't be around people because
I tend to hurt them, physically
And emotionally.
Yet I can't be alone with myself.
I no longer know what to do
Anymore. I feel as if death
Or coma are the only things
That'll help anymore.
So help me.
Save me from myself...

Your time has come, oh warlord
And master perverter,
To travel back to your homeland
Of Scumdogia.

43 billion years old and still
Don't look a day over 42 billion,
You have been here for many
Millennia, living in the frozen
Wasteland of Antarctica.
Maggots, penguins, scumdog slaves,
Friends and your cuttlefish penis
Kept you company until you
Decided that it was time
To destroy the human race
And steal our drugs.

You hacked, cleaved, aborted,
Decapitated, dismembered and raped
Your way through the world.
Nothing stood in your or your
Sword, Unt Lick's, way.
Whether it be a president, a prime
Minister, an ******* from your
Home planet, a celebrity, Hitler
Or even Jesus himself,
You killed and kept going.

You sprayed your loyal slaves
With the blood of those that have
Fallen under your might
And sometimes might have
Came on them from the excitement
Of the battling and performing.

You fed those that bow to you
To a meat grinder and a bloody
Pit of horror.
Fed them to things no one can
Even comprehend.
Lead zombies in a march to destroy
The human race once more.

Yes you may have found amusement
In the pleasures of the many
Drugs that us humans have to offer,
May have raped a few whores
And celebrities with the cuttlefish
Penis, even told me that you
Killed the oldest living man
As you raped him one night.

Great overlord with horns and a
Mighty beard.
Nobody, not even you know of
Your own origins.
You leave us confused as you
Only claim that your parents
Were a supercomputer and
A petri dish.
I bet they were proud of the seas
Of blood and destruction
That you left behind.

Your tales of triumph and failure
Are found in the mighty hymns
That you have sung over
The years.
Each one a story of greatness,
Of glorified bloodshed or
Conquest.
They never grow old and always
Shine through the gore and
Remnants of people left
Behind in your years of ruling.

But not everything lasts forever
Though at times it may seem
Like they will.
You were called back to Scumdogia,
To battle and rape alongside
Flattus once more.
Your loyal slaves and maggots
Will miss you but we know
That you have better things
To do than to stay on Earth
And corrupt our minds.

So take care mighty overlord
And destroyer of the human
Race.
We will be awaiting your return
To eventually kill us all.

Nice

Guess I forgot to add that that was written as tribute to the late great Dave Brockie aka Oderus Urungus.

Bleeding Through: "Line in the Sand"

The line is being drawing through my heart
Where conciving fires through our thoughts
And you're just like me.
And you're just like me.

This is everything I wanted to tell you,
That I'm still in love with everything about you
And I feel the wreckage from everything you do,
And I'm tired of still waiting

If I told you the truth now would you still leave and take my heart?
And I still feel ugly but you're ugly just like me
If I showed you the truth now would you still leave?
Will you ever change?
But I still feel empty.
Will I always lose this game?

This is everything I wanted to show you,
I'm no longer scared of anything about you
I live through the damage of the heart you took from me
And I'm tired of still wanting.

[x2:]
If I told you the truth now would you still leave and take my heart?
And I still feel ugly but you're ugly just like me
If I showed you the truth now would you still leave?
Will you ever change?
But I still feel empty
Will I always lose this game?

I cut up the digits of her
Fingers, throwing them in
The furnace, forever to be lost.
Disposing the bodies are
Always a pain in the ass.

I bring the head of the axe down,
Hacking into her shoulder as blood sprays upwards.
I raise the axe again and bring the head back down
Onto her shoulder.
The limb hangs loosely, just staying connected
By tendons, veins, arteries and threads of skin.

Carefully, I being to remove her teeth,
Placing them in a small bowl.
I'll turn these into a fine powder
To toss into the wind.
This one will never be named.

I chop at her waist, feeling the blade dig
Further into the hip bone. I bring the axe
Down once more and cackle as it slips through
Her body and hits the table beneath her.
Warm blood masks my face as I watch
Her take her last breath, confusion and pain
Forever masking her face.

Now comes the ever tedious process
Of removing the viscera and draining
Them of fluid, just so they won't float.
The sickly sweet stench of organs
Welcomes me as I begin to slice
With my scalpel.

I walk up to her lifeless head, her neck
Bruised and swollen from an earlier altercation.
Her brunette hair is tangled together by blood
And sweat, making her appearance even more haggard.
Oh how beautiful she was, still kind of is.
I prefer them without the glint of life in their
Eyes and the hint of a lie in their voice.
I straighten her head with the caring touch
Of a lover, lightly pushing her chin up and
Exposing her neck. I grin as any bit of humanity
Disappears and I bring the heavy head of the axe
Down onto her once pale neck.

Covered in blood and intestinal fluids,
I drop the sack of organs onto the floor
And pick up my axe.
I step over to her lower half and nod,
Quickly swinging the axe down onto her
Right ankle, severing the foot from her leg
With an almost clean cut.
I repeat the same step for her left foot.
Grabbing the feet what is remaining
Of her ankle bones, I toss the feet into
The furnace as well.
Torso, lower half of her body and organs
In sacks.
Teeth a fine powder, fingertips and feet
Turning to ash as we check off
The list.
Time to go dump the bodies.

Her head rolls off of the table and onto
The floor with enough force to pop out her left eye.
Still grinning, I pick up the head and lay it on
Its side on the table. I put down my axe
And pick up my machete, looking at my blurred
Reflection in the blade. I place the edge of the blade
Against her temple, marking where to strike.
With a nod, I raise my machete and bring it back
Down, slicing through her skull and brain.
The brain spills out onto the floor and lands with a splat.
"We can leave that little thing for the rats."

The weighted sacks splash loudly into the river,
slightly moving with the current as they sink to the floor.
Another night, another death.
Time to clean up and prepare to do it all over again.

I pull the belt tight around
Her neck, blocking off the flow
Of blood and air to her brain.
Her senses start to struggle
As the brain begins to shut down.
Her lungs burn as if on fire
As she tries desperately to fill
Them with air.
Her throat in pain as it and the trachea
Begin to fall into itself from
The constriction of the belt.
With a final tug, I loosen the belt,
Letting her gasp in air like
A starving slave at a buffet.
Her bloodshot hazel eyes run
With tears as she looks up at
My masked face, wanting to be
Set free I assume.
I shake my head slowly, looking over
Her pale, bare body as it shakes
From the pain it has already endured.
I place my right foot on her back
And pull on the belt again,
Pushing her body down as
I pull the belt back, once again
Cutting off her oxygen.
Kneeling down slightly, I remove
My scalpel from the side of my boot
And draw the blade down the crack
Of her ass.
As I let go of the belt, I pin her body
Down onto the floor and stab the scalpel
Into her ass, cutting flesh that has been
Used more times than I have killed.
Her screams echo off of the linoleum walls,
Each stab causing her body to jolt violently
And her to scream ever so louder.
The smile beneath my mask nearly
Splits my face in two as I continue
To sodomize her with the scalpel.
Blood, piss and shit pool around her
Convulsing legs, splashing with each shake.
I lift my boot from her back and stomp
It down on the back of her head,
Her body now still.
Not dead but barely alive.
I know what will wake her up.
I let go of the scalpel and leave it
Sticking out of her ass.
I walk over to my tray of tools and
Pick up my sledgehammer.
I walk back over to tonight's masterpiece
And kick her legs wide open.
I raise the hammer over my head
And swing it as if swinging a driver on a par 5.
The head of the hammer connects with
The handle of the scalpel and lodges
It deep into her rectum.
Blood and scat sprays from her butchered
Hole as the scalpel finds its way deeper
Into her large intestine.
Her legs shake from what I could only
Imagine to be a broken tail and pelvis bone.
I kick her body over and stare into her
Wide eyes.
Her lips form silent screams of pain
As she stares up at the flickering fluorescent lights.
"That was my favorite scalpel...now I have
To try and find it. Hope you're happy."
I whistle a song to myself as I walk over
To my tools once more and drop my hammer
Onto the floor.
I run my hands over the tray and pick up
My ever sharp bowie knife, smiling as I walk
Back over to her.
I kneel down beside her and plunge the blade
Through her flesh and into her stomach.
Her body lurches forward as she spits up blood,
Choking on some.
I ignore her and begin to carve her open,
Watching with twisted glee as the skin easily
Parts way by my knife.
Blood and intestinal fluid runs from the wound,
Making it hard to see into her.
I remove my knife and reach into her,
Grabbing her small intestine.
I begin to pull it out when I notice a glint
Of light.
The scalpel punctured through her large
Intestine and ended up in the small.
I wipe the tool on a clean patch of her skin
And smile as I place it back into my boot.
I drop the vital organ onto the butchered body
And walk away, calling her a dead *****
As the lights shut off.

She is perfect.

It's all I can think as I carve
Apart her torso, licking my lips
As specks of blood meet them.

She is perfect.

I remove what kept her alive
But not what made her her.
Must keep that intact.

She was perfect.

No, no she still is perfect.
Trust me with this. I know
What I am doing.

She'll never be perfect again.

I try to ignore the voice as I
Stuff the cavity with a firm foam.
She needs to feel alive.

Perfection is long gone.

She is still perfect. She is still there.
I remove her dark eyes and place
Them in a jar of water for now.

Perfection gone down the drain.

I slip fake eyes into her sockets,
Smiling as they stare back at me
But not as warm as they once were.

Why do you ruin these perfect things?

Love. Sick desires...but she is the only
Perfect specimen. The rest pale
In comparison to her.

Did you love this one too?

"Shut up!" I shout into the dimly
Lit room, swinging a fist at nothing.
What is wrong with me?

The price of ruining perfection.

I grab a tube and ease it into her mouth,
Pushing the lubed tube down her trachea.
Even perfection needs air, love.

Perfection only needs air when it is alive.

She will be alive again, you'll see.
She'll be even more perfect,
Just you wait.

Perfection doesn't need embalming fluid.

She needs to be preserved.
Life is cruel...so are we but not to her.
To her, we are knights in shining armor.

When will you realise?

I curl her rigor mortis fingers
Into an O shape, careful not
To snap any fingers off.

Perfection does not need that.

She likes doing it. She has pleaded
For her life with far worse
Than a simple hand job.

She wasn't perfect then.

Lies! She was and still is.
I run a hand over her waxy skin,
Biting my lip at the touch of it.

How cold and fake is her skin now?

I spread her legs, excited in more
Ways than just one to be almost
Finished re-creating perfection.

She doesn't need you touching there.

I fill it with vaseline and a tube,
A little tight but just enough space
To fit in inside of it after a few thrusts.

One day you will see true perfection.

She's perfect. And she is all mine.
Time to rewar-

"Freeze! Put your hands where
We can see them!"

Perfection was your downfall.

No, perfection was only my beginning.