Man In The Radiator

It truly never ends, does it?   I’m the Only One Left Alive Scrapping my teeth against Graveyard of scrap metal and reflective saw blades, Plowing desecrated land Bleached with mustard gas and opioids In order to make way  For skinned Nephilim to descend And build a tilted nightmare cathedral  Of new biology, Sharpened stained glass windows Painting all personal failures and sickly light  Flickering the last image I have of your eyes.  Inside Organs hiss and wheeze in preparation  For my final transformation into Nonexistence.  Green river of medication residue  Flooding my skull  Moaning with rising bile Face to the stained floor,  Attempting to embrace a sleep that never comes, Left wondering How did it all come to this?  Make it go away. All these years, It’s slithering up the wilted walls Framing a perpetually shattering embankment  Forever verging on destruction. Dark storm clouds of hacked-up cigarette ash  Bleeds into devouring radiators  Trumpeting screams of vivisected rats  C

I really don't know about this one, I think it is legitimately really terrible. But I had to get it all out, I had to write something, I had to move away from it. Don't ask me what any of it means, and don't ask me why I seem to constantly write the same shit over and over again. Also, I apologize for writing about abused, starving, and/or dying children in so much of my work. If I could protect all children from the rampant, unending horrors of this world I would. But as long as human beings still exist, then torture, suffering, abuse, abandonment, and murder will continue. There's nothing to be done. Man is the animal.  Man is the Animal Hollowed-out gas stations spewing Glittering pink streams of  Drunken leaden fog. Side-winding brick ruins ooze  With spoiled embalming fluids And decades of arcane-fueled piss. Zig-zagging through the withering heartbeat   In the turquoise wrinkled sky, Minds walk away from bleeding skin  And melt together in  Collective subconscious

      I have to write something. Everything within is wilting and slowly rotting under the annihilating sunbeams of perpetual existence. Writer's block to me is a stupid term, I don't like to think about experiencing it, I don't like to use that as an excuse for why I cease to write for a period of time, and I don't think it accurately summarizes exactly what causes a writer to stop writing. It implies a lack of imagination or a failure to be creative, an undetermined stopgap in your ability to create. Maybe that is what it is for some creatives, and I suppose that's all well and good. The act of creating is always cyclical in nature, the drive is never consistent. And I wouldn't dare say that I am constantly creative and my imagination is always firing off out of control, unable to be stopped. No. Writer's block just doesn't quite sell it for me. In my experience, the periods of time when I couldn't quite bring myself to write were a surefire, unque