An odd sort of Poetry · death is a good friend · vice and all her ailments

hell is real

they talked for hours on whether or not hell was real.
and I was quiet.
I was quiet because I knew that it was.

I’ve been there often.
seen the flames
through the blinding darkness
and felt my bones
turn to ice
as everything else melted away.

I’ve seen hell.
seen the emptiness of the painted halls
and the sterile smoke
in every breath.

I’ve heard hell.
heard the desperate cries
of lost souls
that I knew
and wondered whether or not
anyone could hear
mine.

they sit there
and continue to wonder if hell exists,
but they’re staring right at it,
straight into my damn eyes.
– I’ve been there and when I came home
little devils made a house in my mind.

An odd sort of Poetry · death is a good friend

Death to help me

4.23.18

I see Death

and I hear Death

I know Death.

we chat often,

and it seems we enjoy each other’s company

a bit too much.

it is a constant company

when everything else is not

when everyone else leaves.

sometimes Death takes them,

but I don’t hold it against him.

he’s never taken me.

he only picks and chooses

little pieces of my soul;

they wither up and die.

but not to worry,

Death is always here, by my side,

to help me

dig their graves.

An odd sort of Poetry · death is a good friend · vice and all her ailments

tell you everything

4.23.18

I told everyone once:
“If your life is the only life you ever save, that will be enough.”
Darling,
I can tell you everything.
I could will my words to
Save your soul
~and I do~
But I could never
Say those things to myself.
Those things I so badly need to hear.
And I want to apologize
To myself for that,
But as soon as the words
Slip through my lips
They lose their sweet flavor
And I spit them out
Every damn time.