People love hearing the way rhyme rolls off of the tip of my tongue, just before I sensually purse a lit cigarette between my red smeared lips. One more blissful inhalation, allowing the toxic tar to creep through my bronchial tubes and into the abused tissue of my lungs, filling it with the unclean oxygen that feeds my blood.

The world slows down as I'm embraced by the sweet satisfaction of enabled addiction. I exhale with closed eyes whilst subtly swaying to the rhythm of the acoustic melody that entrances everyone listening to me describe the bloody, red roses of Hell.

This is a poem about saturating the forest floor with the blood of my enemies. How they hang in somber anticipation of a ritual knife gliding across the soft skin of their necks and drenching the soil with the contents of their souls.

The blood gravitationally flows through the dark depths of the earth until it reaches the Underworld, where the Goddess collects it in a golden goblet and carries it to the table for the feast to begin.

The gods rejoice as I smear the bloody mud across my cheeks and decorate my walls with Norse runes to awaken my magick in preparation for the waning moon ritual I'll do to feed my power over the wicked creatures in my shadow.

"They will never regain control," I whisper, killing my cigarette.

"Be fruitful and multiply!" Says uncle God, while diapers become more expensive than abortions and orphanages overflow with throwaway children born with their mother's heroin addiction.

"You get methadone for Christmas!" Santa says with a broad smile that protrudes ominously from under a thick, white mustache with yellow nicotine stains on it.

He stumbles into a hall full of parentless children, a torn up black bag in hand filled with donated canned foods and second-hand pajamas that the children from the neighborhoods have outgrown. O, come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant! Let us partake in sharing our old, faded and stretched out trash with the lesser children this year!

There is little that children are more grateful for than a hearty tin of baked beans in this day and age. Thank goodness the stay-at-home mom with the Mercedes and acrylic nails spotted the shopping cart for charity at the entrance of the grocery store. What on earth would we have done without her generosity?

Her application to heaven will surely be accepted by Saint Peter and his key to the pearly gates.

That is assuming, she hasn't fucked her personal trainer at the gym... Adultery is not tolerated by the kingdom of God. The book of Moses actually states that adulterers must be stoned and that always leads me to wonder if children were allowed to participate in stoning... What a world.

So many of us are just destined to be blasphemous insects writhing in the misery of our lonely existence, not nurturing parents patiently teaching their children how to tie their shoelaces.

Yet, here we have active addicts birthing brain damaged babies, victims of rape that aren't allowed to have abortions and abused mothers with Stockholm syndrome seeing her children be taken away and slowly melt into the system, never to return.

The conclusion to this does not include a solution to the problem. I'm simply just saying that people are nocturnal larva that squirms around brainlessly when you shine a light on it. So I'm lowering my expectations of the world. Not that I had much to start out with.

The fucking end.

I consider the irony in the thirty silver coins in exchange for the life of the Messiah.

Thirty coins to save yourself from an ongoing war that you unintentionally and involuntarily participate in.

Man, who is nothing more than an evolved primate, being forced to act against its instinct to survive, whilst natural selection shows no mercy to good deeds. One must adapt or die.

By the laws of nature, the elements favor those who do not oppose change, for it is inevitable and a constant within our movement through the illusion of time. What more is time, other than a measurement of decay and decline, as we go about believing we're moving forward, but in reality, we're actually counting down towards the end.

Death, where even the mighty has fallen and there they will lay, buried within the soil of the earth, right next to me. Rotting and melting off of the calcium and phosphorus rock that used to be the skeleton responsible for carrying around our consciousness.

I wish to hear what her majesty would say, knowing that she is nothing more than compost used for the continued existence of posterity. That for the duration of the sacred cosmos' existence, she was awake for less than a nanosecond and her reign will be long forgotten before the eye of the universe blinks again.

My insignificance amuses me as I observe humanity craving power, gathering gold and slaughtering animals to make shoes of their skin. Soon the lives we've taken will have their revenge, as we shall in turn, go back to the weeds.

05:00

"Here I am, God! Reaching my full potential!" I scream at the sky in futility.

I'm not ready to smile yet. I'm not ready to feign interest in customer's snot-covered children playing in the sand I'll end up sweeping off of the paved road after the "closed" sign goes up. It's either that or be shat on, because Mr. Cuntface wanted white bread, NOT brown bread, or Mrs. Know-it-all would like her egg poached, "Not soft, but not hard either. You can do that for me, right?"

Yes ma'am, I'll walk straight into the kitchen and do it myself. On camera. Where my boss can see me doing exactly what I was told not to do.

Do you even know what South African money is worth? I basically get paid a dollar per hour. I can't afford anything other than Ramen, my car is driving on fumes, the sole of my shoe is loose and my tips literally pays the kitchen staff. I get about 10% of everything I make.

Your poached egg can go fuck itself and that third glass of free water you've ordered? Please remember to pour what you don't drink over the plants outside, so I didn't have to waste my time on serving a retiree with acrylic nails and false eyelashes for nothing.

Fuck. It's 06:17 and I've been procrastinating facing the day, staring into the blank lack of consciousness of my white bedroom wall. I think I'll snort some methylphenidate, yes, drug my brain into wanting to move.

Time to go make enough money to buy glue to fix my fucking shoe.

I remember running with wolves and dancing with devils.

I remember succumbing to the creatures of the night and allowing them to set fire to my blood- it started leaking sorrowful lyrics from my nose. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I wiped it away as unblinking, bloodshot eyes looked back at me with accusatory condemnation. As if I'm the one that's doing this to her.

She looks like she's hardly surviving the abuse. She seems possessed by something which makes her believe she'll evaporate without it. Like she'll disappear into thin air and become nothingness, without the chemicals dripping down the back of her throat, burning it's way down her esophagus and combusting as it collides with hydrochloric acid.

She looks malnourished and starved. Her wide open, dark brown eyes are pleading for sleep as I take in the dark rings that serve as pillows for her eyelashes.

I have to help her.

She needs me to help her escape the glass cage she's being held captive in. I start hitting the mirror with my hands, she's trying to break it too, but it's not budging. I took a step back and swung my fist into the entrance of the prison, hit it as hard as I could until shards of red stained glass start raining over my body.

Where did she go? I broke the cage!

The bathroom door swung open and slammed into the wall next to what was left of the mirror's frame. Someone was trying to grab onto my hands as I was scratching streaks of blood all over the wall, frantically trying to find the entrance to the cage of the girl I just saw. I started screaming for help, but all they did was tie up my hands with towels as they lifted me off my feet and carried me away from the abducted girl that was being held prisoner.

I was put down onto a bed in a darkened room and covered in a rough and uncomfortable blanket. Someone was whispering that everything's okay, I just got a fright when I saw my reflection.

My reflection?

That couldn't be, the girl I saw was broken, tired and in need of help. She needed my help!

I looked down on my hands and saw the thin red slices leaking onto an old ruined towel. I noticed the bruises all over my arms and legs. My eyes were burning and I had lost the ability to be fully conscious, stuck in a state of slight dissociation. When did this happen? When did I get hurt? How many days have gone by since I've last eaten or slept?

Suddenly, a devilish shape appeared at the foot of the bed,

"My darling, you'll powder your nose with your last breath."

Today marks six years since I woke up in that field south of town with dried streaks of blood running down the insides of the lengths of my legs.

I remember finding my torn Hello Kitty panties a few feet away, as I crawled on all fours towards the abandoned building that I knew hosted the event I had to work at the previous night.

My legs hurt and my arms were bruised with marks that looked like the imprints of fingers. In that moment my brain was a thoughtless mass of dense ignorance to what had happened to me.

Today marks six years since I've felt safe and loved by God.

I now know that He did little to protect me against the desires of the demons that mutilated my body. The body that was drugged and lifelessly dragged into the shadows of a rough and overgrown field. I remember robotically plucking out blades of dried grass from my matted hair whilst wondering when I had committed a sin so devastatingly unforgivable that God deserted me. Would my repentance be so trivial, that I don't qualify for the mercy bestowed upon us by the sacrifice of Christ?

Today marks six years since I've abandoned my self-esteem and concluded that I am nothing more than just a product of all the damage I've endured.

How does one measure the volume of an empty container? How does one resuscitate a partially decomposed vessel of a soul that has departed a long time ago?

Today marks six years since I've felt.

I fear I'm destined for mediocrity.

That I am no more than just another fertile womb responsible for the insurance of the success of my species in the animal kingdom.

At least we're allowed to fuck irresponsibly without pumping ourselves full of hormones that change our holy temple's chemistry synthetically against what our biology intended.

What are the side-effects I have to suffer for jailing my femininity?

Me, an ill equipped catalyst to the existence of another chronically depressed masochist in search of meaning in a world devoid of substance.

I guess I invest a lot of time pondering a profound reason for my physical existence, that feeds myself spiritually by moving it in a direction that leads to the fatality of my ego.

So I do drugs. It aids me by accelerating the processes my mind has to be confronted with to reach that awakening I academically regard as a road towards reaching my full potential.

I'm not ignorant to the fact that I'm still just a mammal naturally existing to fall prey to the superior.

So humanity clings to religion, to mind-fuck us into believing we're individually, inherently special and uniquely engineered to form a part of the puzzle that embodies the image of the Holy Dictator that is solely entitled to judging and guiding our spirit to where we deserve to spend an eternal destiny, either in relentless pain or bliss.

I yearn for the dark abyss of non-existence. A thoughtless lack of concrete being. A short lived concept that only exist in the generation I shared less than a fraction of a breath with over geological time. I am just a brief thought in the evermore march of time towards our inevitable destruction of the Earth that feeds us.

So what the fuck is the actual point, unless I find a way to conjure up a way to convince my mind that something exists external to my rational understanding? I pray to the Mother. The underlying rhythm of the universe that led to my sentience against all odds. Does she whisper to me in my escape of consciousness? Or am I slowly turning into someone detached from logical reality?

The answer is maybe.