carpe noctem:

deadly heels and hell-bent grins,
giddy girls with intent to sin,
the night starts early,
but they never end,

while the punishments wear off,
the memories will never fade,
until next weekend...
it'll be the best "worst-mistake" i've ever made.

annoyed and ready

annoyed and ready,

i walk in again, knowing what i'm getting myself into,
not caring,
no point in being polite,
let's get down to business,

pour the stiffest drink my stomach can stand,
no, stiffer,
no point in hiding my intention,
let's get down to business,

i don't want a conversation,
i don't want to hear about your week,
just pass me your lighter,
no point in proper introductions, i don't really give a shit about your family name,
let's get down to business,

pull me closer, let me pull you back,
i don't want to talk about tomorrow, or yesterday, or this morning,
make me feel like someone needs me,
if only for fifteen minutes,
no point in telling me the truth,
let's get down to business,

i see them from the corner of my eye,
and boy does it sting like hell,
so make my drink stiffer,
no point in taking it easy,
let's get down to business,

i look in the mirror,
and i feel sick,

sicker than that time i got the flu,
sicker than that time i projectile vomited,
sicker than that time i got pneumonia,

so i look down,
down at my toes,
i take a break,
take a deep breath or two,
splash some water on my face,
and crane my neck,
i look back up,
but i can't stand to look myself in the eye,
i don't know what she'll say,
actually,
i don't know who she is,
and i don't want to think about it either,

annoyed and ready,

i walk out again, knowing what i got myself into,


and tomorrow morning,
i'll wake up feeling like hell,
laughing at the good times,
pushing away the bad times,
and i'll sigh,
because i don't approve of myself,
but i'll just push it away some more,
because i know i'm going to do it again and again,

i crawl out of bed,
annoyed and ready.

i think it's called a breakdown

It slapped me across the face,
And it punched me in the stomach,
And it kicked me on the floor,
till I spat blood,

And I repaid it,
By shoving my tongue down it’s throat,
By swallowing the fire dancing in a glass bottle,
By sucking the poison in a paper tube,
By doing anything and everything to put my life on pause.

It’s killing me,
It’s making me kill myself,

And I still welcome it,
Every night and every day,
With a smile on my face,
And a knife in my back.

Ars Gratia Artis

In the absence of sanity, art is born.

An artists greatest masterpiece is never initiated just because he or she was having a really great day. The most inspirational, life-changing, and historical works of art are derived from torture, hate, loss, lust, and sadness. Whether their guts be spewed on a canvass, or through an ink pen, or projected into a microphone… it’s spewed nonetheless. Art is messy. She doesn’t sit quietly in organized drawers, folded, waiting patiently. She is the pulsing gun whispering secrets to your forehead.

So here I am. In my darkest hour. Heart in my hands, head in my knees, arms offering. Art is killing me and I thank her all the same. Hard liquor lingers on my tongue, the stench of stale tobacco and menthol cigarettes slither through my hair, and memories of a night’s past dance between my ears. Laughing and singing and enjoying the torture burning my eyes. A walking, talking masochist...ready to strike. So here I am. In my darkest hour. Heart in my hands, head in my knees, arms offering. Art is killing me and I thank her all the same.

Art
is pain
is life.