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Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Gothic · #1001862
A kind of morbid poem I wrote a year ago.
Enter this darkness we call home.
Enter this feeling that makes us so alone.
Enter these morbid thoughts seeping through my head.
Enter the reasons why you're better off dead.

Hating you has come into season.
You never gave me a voice of reason.
Openly sadistic, you stand at my door.
But don't you realize I can't take any more?

Bleed this pain, bleed my tears.
Damage me for eternal years.
Disturb my sense, fuck over my soul.
My life has become a worthless hole.

Death to you, freedom to me.
Is there any reason why you should even be?
Rip this skin right from my bones.
Marching together as if you were drones.

"Follow the one that controls you," they always will say.
But I've come to a realization - you were always better off this way.
With killing this pain, I will kill you.
And even with your malice, there's nothing you can do.

Step away from the flame if you can't take the heat.
Black is your soul, but it's also your defeat.
Despair is your name, destruction's your game.
Step away from the heat if you can't take the flame.

Death to you, freedom to me.
Is there any reason why you should even be?
Rip this skin right from my bones.
Marching together as if you were drones.

Enter the sadness, the guilt and the pain.
I gave you my heart, and with it I gave you my vein.
Enter my despair, and with it lose your ability to feel.
Enter my hate, and I know you won't be able to heal.

Death to you, freedom to me.
Is there any reason why you should even be?
Rip this skin right from my bones.
Marching together as if you were drones.
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