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Sometimes..Sometimes, I do wish I could give up..
But then a person says to me think happier
What..? What?! You want me to rip my head?
Rip it open and perform my own surgery
So my brain can't think of any thought no more?
Well, fucking sometimes.. I wish I could.
Its not like I need emotions, what good do they do?
Its not like I can make myself feel better, no one.
I repeat, No one. I'm unloved by my family..
Friends, even myself. The one I should be trusting in
Well, that's what everyone else says.. Yet.. I-I just..
I can't listen to anyone anymore. Fuck you.
I just want to go, and become a memory, nothing more
Maybe.. Forgotten too.. Not even remembered by one.
Single. Person. I want to not even be known of my..
Existence.. Let me go.. Please. I can't handle this anymore..
Its no longer just a "sometime" feeling.. Let me go..
Dear fucked society,Dear fucked up society,
Why do you take our rights?
Our human rights?
To who we love?
To who we are.. To our image?
You force images down our throat;
Images of airbrushed, false looking
people. You want people to look
more skinny and cause anorexia,
More along the hidden line that
you dig under the ground like
a dead forgotten body yet always there
You show us that its not right to be gay,
lesbian, bi-sexual or transgendered..
And then wonder why the suicide rate is
so fucking high. You cause the nightmares
and terrors of our family not accepting us
longdead leafa longdead leaf
burnt brown in the depth of green
cups a handful of fresh water
a leaf left behind
holds something of worth
forgoing death with its dead body
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More