I want to rip the passion from your lungs. I like it when you make me feel like nothing because it makes me want to scream ten times louder.

The pain is part of the gift. The gift is a timebomb and any day we will be crushed in the rubble of its aftermath.

I hate her for not being honest with me.

The voices in my head are getting louder. They are starting to converse with one another. They are starting to form bonds, relationships, unions and cults. I am not afraid because I know it can only make us stronger. I know that it is healthy interaction.

Your dreams shatter because you keep waking up. Don't wake up--it can only make you unhappy. You are alone but you do not have to be if you learn to sleep perpetually. We do not mean meditation. Meditation is useless. Meditation killed Plato. Do you want to die like Plato? Hemlock?

She was the only one you ever wanted to kill. So why did it feel so empty when you strangled her? Why did it feel like someone else when you took a rope, put it around your neck and lunged from the tree?

There are questions that have not been answered. There are clues that were never delivered, but it seems irrelevant now.

I hate you. I want to rip your skin off and throw it off of the balcony and on to the street.

Through my mind the anger evolves. Perishing thoughts. Intertwined with dreams and acrimony.

You are the criminal. Destroy the right lung.

Post your emotions on the wall and maybe someone will walk by and tear them down.

Turn your pain into wine. She dismantles all of the visions that you have. She is the burden of a world gone insane. Check your anger at the door. Shoot your emotions through the void and demand to have them reassembled. The watcher lurks in the hills of your past--sniping every prospect that comes by.

She was a beautiful girl. You dreamed her into existence and then destroyed her. You cannot be healed. Your instincts destroy your thinking.

I will destroy worlds. Barricades will fall and only chaos can ensue. Only chaos can rule you. I know that you want me disfigured and twisted the way your visions present me, but they are only visions--they are only glimpses of how I look inside. Stop the ill will and know that I am suffering--that your desire has always been true and accurate.

I feel your love is a lie, but who needs love when you have your pain to keep you company? Your pain to propel you. It is my love--because it stabs me like a madman every second that I exist.

I hear voices. I write down what the voices say. This is not me. Who are you talking to?
Who do you converse with when you feel lonely?