My Life's Pleasures

These Are The Memories.

We're all fucked up, messed up, guilt ridden, hiding things verbally forbidden.

Dying every day, trying to appreciate what little life we've got.

Soon, all our hearts will stop.

Breaking down where we can't live with ourselves.

Each of us will hold our own personal definition of Hell.

Do they love me? We can never tell.

What is it we see in the mirror?

A reflection wallowing in every ounce of pain we've ever had.

We sit and wonder how the fuck things got so bad.

Reminiscing on dead memories, empty promises, and broken feelings.

With blades, fire, and passion, we dance with the Devil.

No one ever said we had to be civil.

When our emotions are swirling inside our head, it's a wonder we're not already dead. 

When all you want to do is scream.

Wake up from your hysterically demented dream.

In the middle of the night your breath stops, and you experience a slight case of death.

A failure of a weakness of your last breath.

You dance that line with a frantic pace.

You're living life like it's a fucking race. 

This isn't who I should be, not when all I've ever wanted was to be free.

I can't look at myself, I don't recognize the reflection.

My life's like some sort of undignified resurrection.

I'll leave it to a mindful dissection of interrupted instruction.

How can these hands of mine create?

When all they've ever made was destruction?

I'll carve these nightmares into my skin, hoping that when I wake up they never were.

These are the memories, these will be the memories, the past is full of memories.

I will live fully remembering these memories, my pain, my guilt, my hate, from my mistakes.

I use the knife so I never forget. So I may blissfully, forever regret. 

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