The 2nd of September

2. september 2018 at 12:37 |  Crapholder
28/01/2015

Who is number one in the cabaret?

Short answers. Boredom. Hatred. Nostalgia about future. Worms crawling deep inside, biting, reproducing, infecting. I'm infested by this plague. Two hours. Suffering is in my blood. I'm just tired. And not having a writer's block anymore. Emotions overflow, taking over, creeping behind shoulders. I'm composing and decomposing. Ranting and raging. Staring at the mechanical power cell deep inside my brain, impossible to believe. Memorising and vanquishing the thoughts right after. Drugs drugs drugs. Magic. Guess who's calling? Addiction.

Living and dying are two equally horrible choices.


05/02/2015

You are not alone

We are slowly destroying ourselves, self-harming our minds. Cold outside, cold inside. Both bitter and sweet shades of pink, hiding in the consuming darkness of our souls. Dial 666, our seats had been long reserved.

Remember these moments and cherish them deep inside your heart, for as long as you can, for sad doesn't mean bad.
You'll turn back and see yourself walking away, finishing one chapter, looking through my eyes, guilty, happy, lost.

Nothing can heat me up. Our lips are like ice. We suffer but we enjoy it anyway. Surrounded by madness and unreasonable decisions. The difference between being a teenager is that instead of crying in the bathroom, you cry in your car.

Your hands, warm no matter what.
Mine are frozen, like every single part of my being.
We thought…

No future, no yesterday.
My heart hurts when the butterflies are slowly dying in my stomach, their wings burning.


02/09/2018

Purgatory

April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April. April.

I feel what you feel and I suffer from your pain.

April is June and June is August.
I'm cold and dizzy again.
I lied. We wouldn't be fine.

The butterflies started rotting.
 

The 16th of July

16. july 2018 at 23:04 |  Crapholder
29/05/2017

That constant feeling of homesickness.
Without knowing where home is.
Too many different people and places.


24/09/2017

I'm a bit sad.
But only slightly.

Because the happier you get, the sadder your dreams become.

I've been there already.
It's just ... Too calm.

Few more steps and it will all be okay.

I'm tired of Paris and I hate living alone.


31/01/2018

Those who destroy us

The dark thoughts we hide in the middle of the night. The dreams we keep suppressing in the mornings, sweet bliss of warmth followed by hollowness in our hearts. Be right back. Those who don't exist anymore. Those whose existence doesn't intertwine with ours anymore. Those who torment us. The ghosts in our minds. Those who never even existed.
I buried too many souls.

And you think, simulation complete.
And yet, my mind keeps inventing. It's not right.

I barely remember your face.
You're getting old now.
Old and bitter and not loved.
And I feel sorry for you.

But mostly I feel sorry for myself, because it's not you I scream for, it's the everlasting idea of you.
Idea of myself at that time.
Carefree and on my first steps towards success.
The conqueror. The world eater. Confident and beautiful. Young.

I don't cry for you.

I cry for myself.
For ghosts are in me.
And you are just a shell.
A shell of my own past self.

And I'll be fine.


08/04/2018

Something happened.
Someone told the truth.


04/06/2018

Through walls of zeros, ones, and crowns

I believe it happened when he's first spoken that language with disgust.

God, how ugly and pathetic.

Hard to keep your reason when the last pieces of your mind shatter in front of your eyes.

You both are.

When drums beat fast, and hard, and slow.

Cruel. So cruel.


16/07/2018

A un passant

Remember them, as they are scars on your heart.
Keep reciting their names.

What a Summer. It's a four-year loop.
Could haves and would haves.
Never any should haves.

Can't call myself a fool for I knew what would happen from the very beginning.
Too oblivious, too obvious.
All that will be left is the minimal.

You say so little and yet you say so much.
Gasping for your secrets and you spilled them all.
You would have been perfect. So perfect. So fucking perfect.
And you would care. You would love. You would give your everything.
And I'd destroy you.

… but I was not crying for you then, I am not crying for you now.
I'm crying for my own wannabe.

Just another one in the line. You won't matter tomorrow. Ours paths will never cross again.

Sayonara, yet another ghost in my heart.

The 28th of May

28. may 2017 at 13:01 |  Crapholder
She'll bloom like a desert rose.

He once said: "This big step just got a metric fuck ton bigger."

... and days will never be the same.
Parallels. Universes merging.
I see several realities at once.

"... Until your face becomes nothing but a blur of pale ashes in my mind."

Weak, she drinks her sorrow away, away, away, until everything becomes red again.
She's a shipwreck, she can't help herself, she can only dream.

... The idea.
Not anymore.

A chapter. A reccuring character in her book of life.

All this time.
There's only been an illusion of a choice.

... And everything seems perfect but there is something wrong.
She can feel it in her bones.
Cracking.
It's as if there were voices inside her head again.
But there's no one there anymore.

it's. all. in. my. mind. goddammit.

Flick of a switch, sounds and colours.
Same and sane and same all over again.
She gets bored and bored and bored ...

It's just a waiting game now.
 


The 1st of November

1. november 2016 at 18:52 |  Crapholder
This will make you love again.

Breathing again.
Smiling.
Absolute and utter retardation.
Thoughts dissapearing.

Like a turn off switch for my brain.

Cold outside, warm inside.
Share your deepest, darkest secrets with me.

Think of England.

In all the possible realities and alternative universes, constants and variables.
No walls, only books.

... If I have to switch the lights off, I wanna switch them off with you.