Okay

"An artist is always alone - if he is an artist. No, what the artist needs is loneliness. "


-Henry Miller

“Lingering pleasures corrupt the mind,” the freckle covered man took a deep drag of his cancerous vice, dark eyes watching the fragile girl set before him.

“Get over it.” He pressed.

“What happens when we die?” She asked.

“Enslavement,” he paused, “Probably.”

The weak little girl barked a laugh and set her candlelit eyes dead straight, “I thought we were already slaves.”

The Star ascended and walked out of the bar.

She is a dirty, dirty, racist

Oh Mr. Octopus, you're so handsome

HOW HIPSTERS GET GIRLS/IT'S A TRAP!

All art done by me. Not that it's anything to be impressed by.

Push Me Away

Life has turned dull and acrid,

Dust replaced blood; still becomes my bones.

Weeping women wail all over town.

I can’t be awake.

I walk steady in dreams.

The comfort I had once been given,

Had bathed in and glorified,

Is ripped away, leaving only the thick ink.

A substance so revolting that it fills me up.

My throat is black and oiled;

Brain submerged in shadow.

Let me speak to that once mortal man.

I will tell him all the wonders about all the sparks

Lighting up the world in rebellion.

Three words:

I

AmSorry.

White as Diamonds

Demonic voices croon out to me. Venomous words rolling off tongues as black as Pan’s shadow. The pine forest smothers reality, reducing the now into grain.

As much as I want to fight back and to feel my fists caving in their skulls, my own rebel thoughts linger towards the vulnerable. I cannot begin to expend myself around building an opposition against the foundations that have raised me to such despicable heights. How unfair and how cruel; how terrible my thoughts seem.

Tremble beneath the ghoul’s verdict. Grant me one last choice before the world succumbs to fire and deep heat.