The Milk Hunter

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The milk hunter goes
Skulking slowly cross the tiles
Flashing grimy bemused smiles
Round and round like a sneaky mink
Till he knows of his white smothered prey
And I know he’ll wait till the dead of night
And all else is out of sight so he can strike
Pounce out to the shell white halls
And rip open that silver fridge
He will see it; his prey, his muse, his light
That loose carton of 2% cow made milk
Oh how he has learned, how he has waited
To sneak out from the dark and make straight
And escape with that creamy cocoa treat
And oh god how angered I am now
When I come down from below
Looking for an escape from disbelief
And see the mauled carcass of a carton
Tipped over on the counter;
Fuck… I really wanted some milk.

Just Hurting 

I want to break free from the fucking shackles of my broken bones, my mangled nerves and all the other shit I endure. I don’t want to have to lie in bed for hours on end and cry myself to sleep. Its infuriating and completely revolting… I deal with it the best I can but I still cannot find a positive escape… The pain is always there, mostly bearable but the possibility of agonizing ignition is still always there, being dragged along by my aching kneecaps.

At this point I have been in bed for six hours twisting and turning trying to get away from it, but I can’t…. There are drugs, and exercise and all that other shit but I tried and no matter, the pain and quivering is always there. It’s why I can’t sleep, it’s why I can’t think and it’s driving me absolutely mad… And most definitely not mad in a brilliant sense, mad in the tear off my arms sense. This crap is pissing me off, I’m tired of it and it’s why I haven’t been writing or doing anything lately… Because I don’t want to have to sit in a chair because it’s too uncomfortable… Fucking pathetic


And Set Me Free

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Blend out that notoriety
That far flung severity
Please just let me quietly
Tear up my sobriety
My conscious mentality
Ill pull out my sharpened blade
And scritch scratch my name
Right across your brain
Till all you can think of is me
And then you’ll see that Ive been let free
And I’m far from sight; From your reach
And your meditated violent fucking tendencies.

Flip Flopping

Winding down a road of interchanging prosperity and grief… The flip flop of good and bad entwines me, wrestling meaning from my grasp. I find something lovely wonderfull… Something all of my own, and this road of life, this found journey pulls goodness’s ripe corpse from my shaky hands. What I mean by that is, I procure something of meaningful good and then I lose myself to it. This life I have been treated to picks up that goodness and manipulates it, twists it into something much less. And I can feel it happen, I can feel those supports of mine creak and snap as they’re twisted tight.
Most the time when this happens I do as would be expected. I am flung harshly into a state of tension and vile suspicions. My head is enveloped by a gaseous mass of perceptual flaws… But eventually it fades, that mass of sickliness dissapates into the rest of the white paneled floor… That snow covered depression of thought envelopes those harsh, intimate reflections… Which is indeed a very good thing.
At this point I again find myself happy, confined within reason and surprisingly functional. But I always know… realize that the confusion will traverse it’s way up my minds barricades, trek to the top of space mountain as I might say… It’s a seemingly depressing thought because I know there will be times where I lose I. Where I morph into something odd, I don’t like that decided opportunity…. It’s similar to the way I think about death, I just wish I didn’t always know that it will inevitably happen again.