Choke
There’s bugs.
There’s no bugs.
Yes, there are. There’s so many that I can’t breathe. They’re in my chest. Under my skin. They got in through my ribs.
There are no bugs. You can breathe. You’re talking to me.
…
What are you thinking?
I still can’t breathe.
Yes. You’re talking, remember?
Yeah, but I’m not breathing. I’m crying.
Just go to sleep. The bugs will go away.
It’s too bright.
It’s not. It’s dark.
What if they are bugs, though? What if that’s what’s inside? I can’t breathe. Why can’t I breathe? What if there really are bugs?!
Are you there?
Wake up!
Please?! There’s so many bugs…please, I can’t breathe. I can’t…
Hell
It is not like the stories.
It is not fire and brimstone
and burning flesh.
It is not cold, dank depths.
Endless darkness.
Endless terror.
It is not what you thought.
It is a warm room,
your favourite room.
You sit between all the ones you love,
touch their flesh
and they will touch back.
You can talk and laugh,
it is always light,
it is always warm
and you are never, ever tired.
It is not what you thought.
Time doesn’t move slowly,
or quickly,
or at all it seems.
You do not change.
Your lover never leaves.
Your mother always smiles.
But somewhere,
it could be years
or a few minutes
into that warmth,
somewhere you start to wonder.
It could be fast,
like blinking while the light changes.
It could be a like a stone hitting your back.
Or it could be like poison.
Slowly, so slowly you do not remember
when you first notice,
everyone begins to repeat themselves.
Not like playback, not like puppets,
but like a child who has not read past the first chapter
of a book you wrote.
And they are all agreeing with you,
all the time.
You may try to test this-
shout obscenities and curses-
but they will only smile.
It is not what you thought.
There is warmth here,
and you are never tired,
but those around you have no depth
and you cannot leave
or sleep
or hide.
A smile is a smile is a smile,
is now just lips pulled over teeth.
You may try slap it from their faces,
the faces you love,
but they will only laugh.
Finally, you are in a world
where everything is comfort and safety,
and a friend who always laughs,
and a lover who will never leave you,
and a mother who is always smiling
but are they happy?
Can it be love if they have no other option?
No option
no standard
no meaning.
It is not what you thought.
It is not hot iron,
burning flesh.
It is the ache of never knowing,
of endless doubt in those around you,
the ones you love most.
It is your fear,
and your love for them,
and the emptiness of their servitude.
It is not what you thought.
The room will always be warm,
they will always smile,
and you will spend forever wondering;
can it be real
can it be good
if it never ends?
#wetpetals
ABYSS
The demons bring out their whips—
Skeletons are brought to their knees
A place that seems to have no end—-
With blazing infinite flames~~
It has a ruler~
She marches around....
Checking in on things...
Once taken down there..
There is no way to escape.
Shrieks of agonizing pain ring
Like a loud GONG!
A lamenting song,
There’s no way to tell time there.
Always dark & gloomy,
Full on spooky——
Welcome to Hell.
#ABYSS
...thoughts....thoughts....thoughts
You know everything about the doublemint. How it tastes and squishes under your teeth. How a bear would certainly not take one and how you would certainly not offer it to a bear. How you could chew it for hours like a drug until it tastes nothing but stale and your own saliva. It was both the mint and the heaven - all flattened out into a single strip of gum.
You know everything about it but ironically it's all you could think about. There is nothing to do here. Just you and an endless space of darkness. You thought there would be fire and all that screaming and crackling flames were what would make this place exciting. Not the most livable place and certainly not the safest, but you expected to find something here, its own sort of beauty perhaps.
But all you want to do now is chew some doublemint like you did when the boring teacher would walk in. All you could think about now is how you want to float away from here and bump into a planet or rock. Or just anything.
This empty darkness has its own sort of beauty, but you never thought it could make you so afraid, so terrified because you could do nothing at all. Everything is forbidden here, except thinking. And thinking is hell on its own depressive way.
And damn, you know all about this already.
Hell is...
Loud, a painful din
hovering on the verge of deafness
no escape, no sanctuary
crammed in your little boxes
fetid air that doesn't circulate
thick with the rank odors
of fear and the unwashed
but sits in sullen oppression
still tasting of its last user
but offering no relief
the moment when
your stomach drops through
the floor, and keeps going
chest tightening, eternal windlass
lacking release
twilight, just dark enough
to be almost alone
but still able to hear whispers
rustlings always just beyond
the tiny circle of light
the feeling of knowing
you could reach out and take
a hand, a heart for comfort
never have to let go
your choice whether to relinquish
unless another is reaching
at that moment
towards you with iron grip
wanting order, control
knowing there'll be none
unless by force
a force you feel swelling
under your skin
but are too scared
to use
being scared of caring
of being inescapably tied
to these flimsy moorings
but being more afraid
of not caring at all
of what would happen next
being stuck
with the thoughts, the people
the problems, exquisitely aware
of the trap and yet
unable to break free
seeing a spirit being broken
& not having the words
to help
seeing the good and kind
get short shrift
knowing full well
what's happening
a powerless observer
watching the days blur
as life accelerates
brake lines cut
unwilling to jump
or maybe incapable
long days and hard hours
laboring against
all the little worries whose weight
slowly wears down, erodes
like water on granite
lines skindeep hiding
a bleeding heart
youth gone too soon
life, until
the sun comes out
or you close your eyes
and lean
What is Hell?
But a place in our mind where we are imprisoned,
By our own pernicious thoughts.
Hell created by us, created by our tragic, torturous and troublesome thoughts.
That Depends...
Hell depends on who you ask,
Whether it’s a kind baker or a gunman in a mask.
For some hell is hot and reeks,
Smelling of death and the fear it seeks.
For others hell is cold and dark,
With their sins layed out, horribly stark.
It is up to each to decide their hell,
For some tortures specifically might not ring the Bell.
The Bell of course is one’s deepest fear,
The one so deep, nothing will stop a tear.
For some though, Hell is already their life,
Like for those who have lost a child or wife.
Or perhaps a husband or son in a war,
That left wounds raw and sore.
Hell is unique to each and every soul,
With their own personal demons fulfilling their goal.
Hell is something that cannot be defined,
Because hell is not something neatly lined.
It is full of a gray area where anything can go,
Even some things we will hopefully never know.
Hell is something we truly fear,
For in a twisted way it is something we hold dear.
After all, we created the concept of Hell,
So which is scarier, the creator or the cell?
Hell
Hell is lonely.
No one to hear your cries.
No one to tell you
“Everything will be ok.”
Even if there were someone,
Being comforting is pointless.
It won’t be ok.
It won’t get better.
You will suffer forever.
Hell has no love.
No one to care.
No one to hug you
Or remind you
You are special
You are wanted.
Because in Hell,
You are not special.
In Hell, you are not wanted.
Hell is nothing but a reminder
Of all the mistakes you made.
Day after day,
Year after year,
It’s the same.
The same pain.
The same sorrow.
Forever.
There’s no escape.
There’s no hope.
Your life is what it is
And it will never change.
Hell is being stuck.
There’s no point to anything.
You can’t fight.
You can’t get better.
You can’t fix all you’ve done
To deserve this fate.
Hell is giving up.
When it turns 5 pm...
i hate when it’s 5 o’ clock
its time to go home and hear my wife rant and rave
oh, no, she’s not a mental patience, but a lovely one
she’s so buzy with appointments, and so fussy
no time to cook turkey on thanksgiving, so she orders
expects me to arrive at home at shark 6 or she calls office
i need to shower at 6.30 pm or else we wont have sitting dinner
her business associates arrive at 7pm and we need to have champagne
desert and coffee is served at 9pm and the guests need to depart at 10pm
we need to sleep by 10.15pm and i cannot touch her because she has on
a stupid face mask, that she needs to keep till morning, i hate it when
she wakes up at 6am and goes for jogging and comes back at 6.30 sharp
i hate it when she cooks pancakes and refuses to kiss me because she has on
a Mac lipstick or else it will get ruined, i hate it when she drives away
and i sip my black coffee with one teaspoon of sugar, as per her sugesstion
i never call her at 10am and we never meet for lunch and i always see her
face on the business magazine cover and she looks so proud and confident
and i just wish that she noticed me for once that we miss our lifes together
and i hate it when she foregets my birthday and it’s like hell when my mum
calls and says, i have dont a good job and that she’s proud of our marriage
if lying to your mum about a happy marriage is not hell, than i truly dont
know what hell is all about, and i wish my mum would forever stop calling me!
Hell
Hell is my mothers body, scorching beneath the hot summer's sun.
Delirious, she whispered brokenly to me,
that she was so tired of the earth and the pain it had to offer.
Delirious, she moaned to her children that she wanted to leave them,
to join God in his eternal kingdom.
Delirious, she growled that I was a burden.
She told me she had stared at the sun for hours, naked, in an attempt to climb Jacobs Ladder and leave this hell behind.
Hell is my father's eyes,
beholding that his daughter is not the little girl he loved anymore.
It is my father's voice, asking what happened to the little girl
who ceaselessly dreamed of positivity, progression, change.
The girl who wrote until her left hand was covered in graphite as she
wrote her dreams on random scraps of paper.
Hell is my answer, when I scream to him that that girl is gone,
and what I really mean to say,
is that I'm not sure she ever truly existed at all.
Hell is a drunken night,
held down by rough hands
and a foggy morning trying to figure out how to get home.
Hell is my mother's body,
scorching beneath a hot, hot sun
and praying to God that her life will be over.