In the room we eat,

Dine on life with yellow teeth.

Knife and fork in hand.

Stab the divine beast,

She'll curse us for what we eat

Dine on hollow grounds.

My head hurts.

And I mean it, it really hurts.

Realizing that owning a business is the business of DEPENDING on other people is the most soul-sucking experience I think I've ever felt.

You're left no other choice, because without them, you'd have no time to breath, no time to sleep, and no time to even think.

Because every breath within you would be consumed by the unending experience of knowing that you're riding a burning plane down to the ground and you're too tired to make an emergency landing.

God.

If I could close my eyes.

And yes I said the lord's name in vain.

I would be able to imagine the untold horrors of what would come to be of me if I tried to shut it all down.

Progress that I made, worked so hard at, and then for me to get sick again and again, trying to push down the mounding debt, would only kick me further across the ground.

Kick me fucking harder.

PLEASE!

For trying to get a handle on my life, for trying to rely on people who promise me things that will make it right.

More fucking empty promises.

It must be the trauma in me.

Draining my very energy.

My very being.

For when I think of all the things that eat me,

it's the empty pools of words from lips told to make me think they'd build ships

while mine sinks.

It's... gross.

You were right,

Who are we to take hold of the veil and part it as we like.

Like curtains, between the mass of black and white.

We are purveyors, when we believe ourselves to be so.

But in the reverse, we are more like onlookers, riding the storm.

There is no twist and turn we can articulate accurately upon extended years.

We are not the seers of futures long left to be bore.

For when we stop selling the convictions of life,

we must traverse the harder storms.

Become the payer of tolls, of feet long worn.

But fickle as man may be, attempting to be sellers of after time,

in the reverse, we have no idea of what kind of life takes on our dying end.

So trade with me, like we might make something more of ourselves,

like we might find the true meaning in life.

Become the god in which righteous living is besought by my word,

buy my wares, then sell my goods.

When you come of age too,

I can turn my wares. Trade off my beseechment,

and let you turn theirs-onlookers, believers, and non-believers alike,

I do not care, for neither here nor there

Will I be anywhere.

For in death, I trade nothing.

Nothing but the final end to my curiosity.

Where the time for me stops,

and I know the secret of humanity.

The way we consume,

is one way I could describe the way a sour stomach might churn and twist from eating something foul.

Because every day the life within humanity eats the same old rancid bowl.

Decay, conflict, inner and outer intricacies dance with the line of moral balances. Here we might come to consume, to consume the outer things while our worldly being eats from the table of poison.

Nothing can save me from within, from the moral decay I'm in.

There is one way I could describe it. The way that humanity makes me feel like I'm tearing myself apart to live within it, when I am just as much it as it it is me.

We break bread over a broken filthy table, eat, and eat from the food we pull from within.

The spoils of war, the spoils of all from glittering inedible apples of foam to the heart retching screams of those behind walls.

We are the eaters,

the ones who dress this table with our fruits born of poison.

Is there no place where we don't all taint the ones we bring to our dinner?

Or is dinner the place where we carve up and open the things that were never meant to be there?

Hell. I think I might have been on the table, once or twice.

Have I spilled enough innocent meat to spoil it all? Or is it customary to serve each other rancid meals?

But we consume, consume in the ways that make us all very poorly ill.

Where is the sake of morality when humans live for the thrill? For the forks we slam butted ends to tables, marking and marring the wood.

Are we all but fickle beings, of flesh and bones until we fall to the wicker wood?

"Burn the corpse,

eat the flesh."

Either way, it all looks so unreal from behind the glass,

of the house made with plastic.

And I might put my eyes to the outside, and stare from within,

wondering how I managed to sneak away from the poison table.

Because where within, within me rots, the parts I cannot get back...

The parts where the public all dined in.

On my bleeding body,

Where all would.

Pinch.

Skirt between thumb and forefinger.

A bent knee,

a closed eye.

Spin, spin round on a ball of flesh tonight.

We shall spin around,

round and round until the lights dance above us.

Oh so high.

Kirei.

Kirei.

Kirei. Kirei. Kirei.

One hand up,

one leg tucked against the tipping top.

A kick to propel,

and she spins round and round.

Kirei.

Kirei. Kirei. Kirei.

Kirei nikaiten suru.

If only you know the beauty in the delicacy of the dance that we do.

Death is the city of black.

Like light faded veils of black coating glittering white and yellow lights.

Of the city, we can only believe that it gives its very best.

Whether at your or my behest, it is the city's, of the city's, the no shi no.

Yes.

Because death is the city of black, no shi no. No more mine than yours.

My hair is black again.

If the lighting of the room had any tricks to play,

it might be here.

Telling me fibs, like my hair goes from brown to black.

Sleek... slender, snake-like black.

If only I could read my hair like the color that drains from my eyes when I'm feeling particularly starved.

Like the rain in the sky, and the land I stare at, that reflects back in my eye.

If only I could read my body, like the way I perceive myself in the mirror with my mind's eyes.

Narrow... Pale. Barely brown, with eyes that look as black as pitch.

You almost couldn't tell they were brown,

like the lighting of the room had tricks to play on you and me.

Like the demon within, is only waiting to play.

But my hair is black again.

I wonder who's staring at me in the mirror.

Can you imagine the amount of time people had mended torn clothing,

In an age where mass produced clothing wasn't as accessible as now?

Could you put yourself into perspective, where you might find that denim jeans stretch and thin until the threads come bare?

Imagine yourself, patched to hell,

Here and there.

When you scratch and claw at someone, tearing at them like you're trying to keep them there, keep them behind.

Your nails will claw and dethread clothes, but it's really their mind.

Skin will break, blood will flow, and all the things in between.

When you break a person of their will, there's no mending that spot.

There's only the in-between.

The in-between is the place where the mind comes to settle,

to... 'cope' and in which ways, an ugly scar might poke,

poke through to show, it's threadbare place.

In a world of pretty and ugly,

It's a scar for all the obscene.

So when you ask, when you state that 'a person is, among all else, a material thing'

I can agree. I can believe that it is like cloth, 'easily torn' and where mending counts most, 'not easily mended' because humans aren't cloth.

They're not so easily blended.

I like to think that I'm not so self-depressing that I would be thankful for every thing I've ever had, and ever been given.

I want to be that person desperately, but sometimes my inner thoughts have a sort of way in which they eat at themselves.

Wait... Go back.

Eat at themselves?

I mean, I guess... The more poetic word for that would be to say that they 'eat at me' or 'nibble and gnaw' like a black cancerous fungus that consumes me, leaving me speckled and discouloured.

Ah, fuck it. If I'm going to be looking raggedy, I guess I ought to be the thing that represents my inner self most, right?

Right?

Huh... No one to answer me. Isn't that philosphical. Philosophical in the way that I'm answering to myself and everyone gets to hear me writing about my more inner insecurities, like I'm painting black streaks on white walls, intending to 'paint the room black' in a sort of sense as if to relieve myself from my stress.

I guess you could say I am, or maybe I'm not.

But let's get on with it now, shall we?

Here, I might lie away [awake*]. Like the ceiling is spinning above me, or I spin below it, wondering when I will ever find peace in my living moments.

Not waking, not sleeping... Because we all know that sleep is a place where the further things chase closest.

No, it is here where I go to mash up all the innate intricacies of lie [life*]. Of the madnesses... Where I can't get back the moments in time where I was tormented by people of lessor morals, but where their deeds form into nonsense where my power goes away.

I hate them.

As I hate the sense in which they feel emboldened, stronger in the places where they didn't catch me in reality, but merely tore at my clothes and flesh with their dirty nails like it might take a bite out of me.

Here, here is the conquest that they sought so hard for. In my sleeping moments.

Where waking only allows me to rationalize that they did not win, for I am no prisoner for it.

But that is fine. This is... fine. I am all fine.

I am not broken, because on some night... Some night I dream long dreams. Some nights, I curl in, and I sleep with nothing there to demean... me, or my family, or any other. Because the only horrors in my reality, is where people damn and curse me with their vileness on untruths.

It's when the truth is laid bear, I'll stand firm and take the blows. Take bullets, take criticism, but when they lie, it's torture. My mind only knows.

I'm saddened that I am found by the torture of people of no morality.

People who-for all intents and purposes-get off to the sound of depravity, of yanking down someone they hate with all their being, like it's a great sense of tyranny wrought true.

But here, they can continue to feel proud.

Feel like they are winning the battle of attrition, and we might all point knives at each other, ready to gut each other like the Thanksgiving 'chicken' and break bread over the corpse to our winnings.

No, I am tired... Tired of the hard sleeps,

Of the nightmares that I'll never speak,

And of villains long dead from my life who's imprints have left marks in my unwaking hours.

I want to be free of it, but it's all my mind conjures.

A personality of all flours [flowers*], and silly -isms, like the ridiculousness born from me might make me blossom into this wonderful (whatever rhymes with this). I want to be done, or maybe condensed. Less... compressed?

Where was I going with this?

Let's be frank. I'll live less. Less in the past,

In my turmoils.

In the place where I close my eye and seek smiles,

smiles of those with glittering white teeth.

Gross, sick... perversions of themselves.

When do I ever wake? Wake up!

God. If there is one...

Can he stop showing me these? These people...

Those people. The ones who mean to do me harm, because it makes them feel better about themselves on this sick animal farm.

That's what I think, when I close my eyes.

When I lay my tired head to bed,

with sickness in my mind.

Because I'm ill with all the things intended upon me,

by those who had no other rational reason.

At least one, I can't see.

Where we all live,

Where I might breathe.

Let it be away from these...

Monstrosities.

That's what I think, when I want to give thanks.

To will away the pain, of the things that just take.

So let me thank those, from their genuine place.

I'm sorry.

I believe you.

I'm just a little... damaged. I'll be frank.

Fear isn't the enemy of respect.

It's got an uncanniness to it, but it's place where old and young have met.

Where a child might touch a stove,

Hot to fingers and palms, but a venture that might prove bold.

Ignorance is the enemy,

The enemy of life.

It is the thoughtless action which breeds uncentered takes,

Where a youth might be careless,

Might- pick up a gun.

To rob someone for what isn't theirs.

What never should.

And should they find out, what those actions might do,

a gun in the hand might come to undo.

Fear isn't the enemy,

but rather the company of respect.

It's the thing that makes playing with knives,

a dangerous game of suspect.

Suspicion of what could be,

would be or never should be known to be seen.

It's a place where there's no takebacks, no matter what you might mean.

Because what fear brings, is a consciousness of limits.

Without fear to faithfully guide, respect of life might not be in mind.