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The Chapters We Fear

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The Chapters We Fear 
He sits looking to the pages before him, the ones he wrote. Turning each page with hesitation as a grim feel of grief taints his face. His eyes looking leery of what he shall read. For he knows the words that have tied themselves to these chapters.

Peeling each page back with reserve but in the intent to understand. His heart drops in a constant revolution upon the turning of pages; fleeting to the boules of his gut. Moon light shimmers along side the welcoming of modest flames, it flares a shadow upon his wall.

He looks to his flickering silhouette that fears the moon and candle light. It contorts with a sight of misery compelled by the wish to retreat. Snarling at the visage of what he is. He ignores the aggravating wishes of his shadow. He continues to turn the tears and blood stained pages.

This book is no mere read for the weak nor the lackadaisical. It is the exact reflection of himself, of everything he has done. It is a book no man wishes to read nor hold…

Choking On The Repressed

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Choking On The Repressed 
The door swings open, a ghastly wind rushes into the room. It takes hold his throat, he begins to choke; he struggles to his feet. Grasping at his throat his eyes strung wide he finds no passage to inhale. The candles lit upon his mantel fall.

They catch fire to his antique rug. Suddenly the windows that overlook the valley lift open. More wind fills the grim space. The flames rise higher with the rushing presence of air. He continues to stumble around the room gasping for relief.

The more he fights, the closer he feels at the foot of death. Visions begin to emerge, all those before him manifest from the raging flames and the dancing smoke. Voices eclipse his thoughts, darkness overwhelms his senses.

A cold yet warmth gathers at his chest. He's sees a figure standing above him looking down as he falls upon his back begging for assistance. But the figure does nothing to repress the violent strangle that holds.

His vision starts to blur, sweat pours from ev…

Make Not a Decomposing Heart

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Make Not a Decomposing Heart
Hearts will come and hearts will go, some will be welcoming. Some will be harsh, plucking yours as if a cherry; feasting upon it for the delight of their own appetite. Savoring the nectar that flows upon their lips like a wine cast from the ages. But yours shall always stay, and it may harden through the harsh travels ahead.

Maybe it already has. Maybe it weighs of stone and beats of tar. But it is your heart, and no others can understand it. You must learn to preach to it, spill your pain to the vastness before you. Write it upon the walls of your ribs. Allowing no wounds to fester, be not a melancholic wanderer. Ending dead in actions of others, as if a counter part of Poe.

Life is no downward slop. It is a path of treacherous and loving things. It will bleed you dry if you let it. It will bury you beneath the soils of earth before you even die. It can cause disdain upon those around you, though you be the sickness that ill's you.

But life also bring…

The Madness of A Needle and Thread

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The Madness of A Needle and Thread
Needle and thread, needle and thread.

He takes the needle stitching pieces like madness. Suiting his desire to be a shadow of himself. His lack of esteem has driven him to the far woods past the Willow Ravine. Where no dare to step, for evil sleeps among the rotting trees.

His eyes as pitch as the darkness that dwells in the woods. He speaks among himself as if he is not alone. His home is but a vacant shelter made of stone; the former residence to the one whom was never known. Its now brittle architecture stands like crooked spoiled teeth. Eroding with each passing wind. 
His heart anxious, pulsating like a symphony of wild violins, strumming as if disaster hangs at his neck. His skin, a pasty ivory, for sun no longer settles upon his flesh. He paces his mind with horrific tendencies as he strings himself a desperate shell of his departed self. His grotesque need to tether the limbs of what he is not; only voids his appetite to be.
It swells his cra…

A Separating of Hearts

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A Separating of Hearts 
Tearing through the fabrics of dream like thoughts. Descending from the mezzanine of my own words. I hear the violins sing in the courtyard of my chest. Somber are they, pouring tears from their strings. From the place at which your hands used to caress. Calming your heart with mine, listening with a smile.

But now we must move on. Our paths are no longer in divergence; separation is our only chance. Dare we hold hands in the fear of our own insecurities, we shall only find anxiety. In that, we shall find resentment; for we will only lead ourselves from our own hearts.

It burdens me so, watching you let go. Our fingers once laced like lips locked in a kiss. Now I travel these unknown paths, and alone. Your voice distant in my head, but close in my heart. The fields before me stretch with golden weaves of wheat; reminding me of your sunrise locks. I smile, but we did not forfeit out of anger nor frustration.

But have given ourselves the chance to forge our ways …

A Murderous Wanderer

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A Murderous Wanderer 
Your trifled need to be callous upon each heart you seek is sickening. One such as you, could even wear exhausted the wood of a white oak with the rotting of your touch. Your collection of the damned is far from acceptance of pity.

It is false approval to your petulance to play hearts. Stringing them like teeth to be worn as a necklace; showing of warriors mementos. You act as if you hail no ill will in the kissing of lips, that in the mystery of your heart, is kindness. But I see the darkness that copulates with your rituals, your soul.

You blend well in a crowd of broken. Plucking the helpless, you stalk in warnings of ides of march. Curating or pogrom of hearts. Mass graves you create, yet you smile; watching as souls weep.

Burying them beneath the soils you tend. Growing roses from the aching, the helpless, but roses of black. Burnt from the misery of hell at which you find your nourishment.

Your cloak of romance, you perform well. Your crooked lean in the bu…

The Unexpected

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The Unexpected
The music deepens, the voices sing with intriguing muse. He stands with a mighty rage as it gnarls at his chest to be free. His skin flushed in fury his fists ready for battle. His eyes deadened to the world that surrounds him. His breath shallow with intent. His mind wandering the possibilities at hand like the tinkering of a mathematician.

He buttons the last button on his shirt, pulls his tie taught and presses it smooth. He examines the threads of his attire. He turns slightly to his left, a small fiber peers from his charcoal jacket as if to taunt him. He pinches it and plucks it with resentful inclination. An examination of his clothes is taken up once more. Adjusting his tie one last time, he looks himself in the eyes. 
No words are spoken, but he postures himself with confidence. Pressing his chest outward, his chin slightly tilted up, and his arms settled to his side. He takes in a heavy breath and slowly releases it. 
He turns away from his mirror and takes a …