The ink in my pen is the blood in my veins. Purple poison IV drip onto the page is the only way to stop the pain. Or to ease it, there's no stopping the hurt I was born with it.
Noxious notions always in constant motion through my brain. Vanquishing every ounce of optimism. Acting as an embolism in the morality vessels running across the degeneracy that inhabits my being. Search and destroy within me trying to find meaning. On the highway to success in the city of sin ruled by demons and ghosts.
The bus that Im in is one driven by money, success and power. Everyone trying to devour, each other over the other's objects, some mind their business in a corner. I'm one of those, while it all happens I watch and take notes.
Notes that one day will be notorious, just not big, because the train that runs upstairs is not a linear one, it's more like a deranged drunk driver driving down dozens of paths. Making it's way through the valleys in my mind that we have shaped through time.
On the other side of the twisted tenebrific ravine best described as the genesis of all the poems and theories I devise. Wickedness is gathering it's forces, camouflaging under other somber notions. The highest ranking general, insomnia, followed religiously by depression, pain and paranoia.
The pressure can be released, it just might not be the most efficient way. To hurt yourself and temporarily evade, or hurt for most of your life to be free some day?
The question remains...
-Chungitox
