Warning for violent descriptions, blatant mentions and implications of s__cide/self h_rm, c____balism, dark/offensive humor, and cussing. There are images of gore, blood, self h_rm, and violent depictions at the bottom. Skip this, it's almost a goddamn crackfic. May the right audience find this shit so people alike won't have to pour their feelings out like this, and merry December twenty-fucking-fifth.
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THE DAY OF DREAD COMES TO PLAY, ONLY ANOTHER WEEK AND IT'S ALL LEFT FOR DEAD. In short, it's all fucking edgy.
What a sad sight.
It'd be preferable to unwillingly consume one's decomposed, slimy, rotten intestines. Better yet, my own skin. Who am I to say that, though, considering it's challenging to stay away from a razor at will?
Hopefully this'll be the last time awaiting New Years when it feels like JACKSHIT barely happened, or better yet, make it the last fucking Christmas that the embracing light of dawn arrives in time to clear any thought of death or violence.
Waltz along the river bed, who could give a fuck this time?
No "Christmas Joy" to care about anyway considering this frankly upsetting exception of a "life" I lead, and eventually by next year, would have lead.
To this day, it was the mere feeling of a n t i c i p a t i o n that alleged sunlight will come. It served as a reminder, "If this is the string holding everything back, It'll fray, agonizingly at that for another fucking year."
Quite a contrast to the intentions now held by a mentally challenged piece of shit.
If the days were predicted to be like this, maybe it would've been better to take advantage of the soft, fragile skulls we once had as young, naive, and clueless ignorant children.
The back of a blue notebook is where to jot down the bullets of each day.
Unsurprisingly it's reached a point where there's limited emotion to express, detaching to prepare for falling on a knife has made enough dents to the current conditions. Soon comes the final blow.
It's them, they're the strings that hold my limbs from a pit of spikes that lay below. Thank all of them and keep them safe at the cost of my existence.
Perhaps death will pay a visit soon. Time to carve and inscribe something in my arm, preferably the names of those six angels that I owe everything to.
Torture my body physically, or shoot at mental stability.
Small incisions from this blade don't affect, not anymore, the only feasible option is scream with colors or mask with a friend. Let this be it, then.
Is it not dreadful to read works such as these? Sincere apologies, but it'll keep together.
It is your life that you currently hold; you carry the most impact on it. If change is called for, do not hesitate if it is for good.
Now it's all clear to put this life at stake on what is said and what is to be done.
Following images are vent art. Please be warned these have depictions heavy gore/blood, self h_rm, cussing, cut off body parts, and bright colors, possibly more.
December 9, 2023
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November 18, 2023
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October 27, 2023
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April 4, 2023
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The knowledge that death awaits six minutes away, and all it takes is a lack of breath. It's a struggle to wait for the canvas to dry so more paint can be added, but there is nothing forcing the wait other than myself.
The brush is in hand, albeit it wouldn't serve well for senses, but this is to be punishment for everything left in my trail that fucked up this world.
