This content is intended for mature audiences.
or, enter your birth date.*
|sex is my drug of choice. a new kind of inspiration.|
Cancer CellsBy the end of 2011 all cigarette boxes(in america) will depict disturbing images that should discourage people from smoking.Cancer Cells by dreadful-star
I could paste a little picture of my heart
On your little box of cigarettes
So you could see the cancer that waits inside
And know that it tastes like burnt flesh and dry anthrax.
I burn with each toke, starting with my toes
While my head is stuck in your stinking mouth
My body between two fingers like a bug
Captured and going limp.
It would be the first to ever make you vomit
Like the first time you ever held my hands
And told me that they reminded you of an incurable disease
Or when you looked into my eyes and said,
"Everything is dead."
handheldhellHeart held handshandheldhell by dreadful-star
Or the other way around,
Hand held hearts
To your liking
A web of lies
A sliver of
Go to hell
In the fire
Sleep with liars
And poets writing
Under a stanza
Off a cliff,
A broken neck.
I remember it like it was never again
Nice ShotHey man,Nice Shot by dreadful-star
Ever heard the definition
Of everything you they said you could never see?
What's that between your fingers?
Rolled up tight
Reducing their false realisms
Height: 5 feet 4 inches
Weight: 91 pounds
19 letters to poetry
I have held you up to the light
And seen inside your birdcage lungs.
Do you know your skin is made of paper?
At night I swear I hear you choking on a broken metaphor,
And I wonder if I should push it back down or let nature take its course
By waiting till the phrase is stuck in just the right way so they can hear you whisper a true meaning,
Before you slip into a self-induced ink coma.
Poetry! My poetry,
What will you pull from me next?
I haven't heard from you in days..
Whisper through my pores and tell me another lie.
You are a strange creature with nine pretty legs,
The kind that everyone wants,
But pretty legs
Need pretty bones.
I love you, Poetry,
You have shown me the meaning of long sleeves
And how to destruction can be a form of creation.
You have created entire worlds-
Filled with ugly people.
I want you inside out
Between my fingers and at the brim of my lips.
Let me tear you apart and
Because everything beautiful is never perfect
And my sex is
You're beautiful, Poetry,
Even after I have deflowered you and twisted your paper face..
You bled ink like ichor and
Flashed a smile for their benefit
As I mutilated what I found inside..
Are you so submissive?
You let them do whatever they want to the structure I have perfected..
You were beautiful in knots,
But they turned you into everyone else.
Let me explain something, Poetry,
They will remove your outer layers until they get down to the spine
And they will beat you and
Water you down until your meaning surfaces..
They will want you to annunciate every word,
But only I know of your speech impediment and the way you stutter like there's a moth between your lips.
It is an insect language, written first by the god of liars.
Oh lost Poetry,
You have arms like mine.
Tied to a chair with wrists crossed over a synthetic spine.
Just the type of virgin to mirror the moon
And like her you have a dark side.
I want to hear your many
voices. Like waves being scraped against the shore of your shoulder blade.
Poetry… shut up,
I'm tried of you whining over lost love and your addiction to self mutilation.
I hate you Poetry,
You have become ugly and
Can no longer us that excuse that it is art.
They've fucked you, Poetry,
You are the pre-incarnate whore of god.
Do you feel hollow yet?
Why must you lie, Poetry,
You speak of hideous things that you have never experienced..
"Rape" is a word much too casually thrown around.
You used to be the only way I could make mistakes.
You warmed my bones up to the fingernails
And I was young.
I used to care;
Now I'm just used.
You're dead, Poetry,
They've killed you.
I'm dead, Poetry,
But they couldn't identify the body.
You took my fingers and my teeth
And turned them into a clever stanza
At the sake of your creator being forgotten..
It's been hell,
p.s. you were never worth my ashes.
Current Residence: rats mouth, Floriduh
deviantWEAR sizing preference: smaller than you
Print preference: *out of toner* *out of paper* *printer needs ink*
Favourite genre of music: rock, industrial, metal, grunge, . . .
Favourite style of art: poetry ...... conceptual photography... watercolour.. line drawings
Operating System: Windows XP
MP3 player of choice: ipod 3rd generation nano 8 gig
Shell of choice: bomb
Skin of choice: yours
Favourite cartoon character: Toki (from metalocalypse)
Personal Quote: "the more i think, the more i hurt"