Meolmastdethiwaabbymybr

...the office of God, so immensely large that it's smaller than an atom. Your red eyes mean nothing. Family lost, data lost, memory lost, and nothing but pain gained. 
This is the experience of life - pain, but the meaning of life is to survive its suffering. 
I knew that they would ask for payment for things that should require no payment.
It hurts more, it cuts harder than a large, razor-sharp knife, serrated, thrust deeply into your chest by a "psychopath" who you once loved.
When you don't know whether you've been pushed or you just jumped alone, but have been falling for many years, and are only now just seeing the hard, cold ground that your face is going to mash into. 
No one is going to help you get back up.
The meaning of life is to survive its suffering.
A pig, but not innocent.
Pig big brother, embrace the norm.
No tears, no emotions, especially negative emotions, please be normal, be fine, don't mention upsets. Chat about normal things, don't upset the apple cart. Past is passed. No exposure. Please just bottle it up, because we obviously think the bottle has infinite storage.
Pure tears. In the life of dirt, cleanliness makes you cry. Purity is so beautiful that its brilliance hurts your eyes. So used to darkness. Tears cleanse, but only sometimes.
Talking silence, you may as well break, like the wind, farting and cry-laughing, better out than in.
Find comfort in the strange yet familiar.
A third option, he said, in the unreachable passed...

The Unpoem

Court,Date,Anx...

I feel the weight of shadows closing in,
what if the bars become my next 'skin'?
Thoughts racing fast, heart pounding in my chest,
counting down days, this pressure's my test.
In the silence echoes scream my fears.

Anxiety's grip has me on my knees,
worried about life on the other side, please...trying to breathe, trying to find my peace, but these chains in my mind, they never cease.

I'm haunted by the dreams of a cell,
where time moves slow, it's a personal hell.
My mind's a prison before I even go,
tangled in thoughts that I'll never let go.
What if I lose all I've known?

Anxiety's grip has me on my knees,
worried about life on the other side, please...trying to breathe, trying to find my peace, but these chains in my mind, they never cease.

Each heartbeat feels like a ticking clock...
waiting for a freedom, but feeling a shock.

Prison Mind

Richard Thomas Clear

Body dysmorphia, depression, anxiety, desperation... 

The Hurt

When Christ popped over to Hell to free the souls who lived a good life before Christianity, He might have had a good time with some sinners... We're all tainted by original sin and carnal desire, all of us, even a twixt between God and Man is part Man.

Fuckin Hell

With thanks and apologies to 
Ivan Zanotti's MyMadnessWorks
https://store.steampowered.com/app/429720/IMSCARED/

Imscared

Chronophobia

a cold doubled-edge new razorblade
against my warm flesh

cut

blood comes

deeper

blood

release now

blood

Cold New Blade

Innocence Hurts

Inspired by Zoe's return to EastEnders; an ode to self-destruction and self-sabotage.

Zoe Slater

Boseman

How do you know that I'm not real?
How do you know that you are?
You cannot tell me that you're better than me,
So shut up and let me be. 

I watch them speak with golden tongues,
Their laughter rings like cathedral bells.
I shrink behind my folded arms,
A shadow cast by someone else.

Their feet are sure, their gaze is firm,
They own the ground I walk upon.
I stumble through a borrowed voice,
A minor note in their grand song.

How do you know that I'm not real?
How do you know that you are?
You cannot tell me that you're better than me,
So shut up and let me be.
 
My thoughts arrive with broken wings,
Too soft to rise, too slow to land.
While others paint in bold, bright strokes,
I smudge a line with trembling hand.

They do not see this weight I wear,
This coat of doubt stitched thick with fear.
Each step I take, a question mark,
Each glance confirms I don’t belong here.

How do you know that I'm not real?
How do you know that you are?
You cannot tell me that you're better than me,
So shut up and let me be. 

Yet still I breathe, I write, I wait.
A seed can sprout beneath the stone.
And maybe in this quiet smallness,
There’s strength in being not yet known.

How do you know that I'm not real?
How do you know that you are?
You cannot tell me that you're better than me,
So shut up and let me be.

How do you know that I'm not real?

Hurt

Thanks to Bellebasaur for the angry yelling - https://freesound.org/people/Bellebasaur/sounds/484179/

RTC765

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