I did not write it.

A poem that is untitiled.
By ———

I see the darkness. Filled with death. It calls to me and says I wont have regret. A mysterious madien and a violent shadow over throw my minds equal vision. Please erase my memory of the past.

Like a addict I am enraptured in a pool of blood red visons. Its a frequent illusion of mine to know whats real. Cant escape the self or the lack of self. Cant exit when the door is held shut. My mind is a cage filled with waves waves waves of toxic waste. Waste of green and slime. I guess I better get a boat soon.

Yeah I sit in my cage in my bird cage and I feel the enraged violent tendency to attach a knife to my hand. I have spare parts and Im just trying out the new hand I built myself. Gonna exchange this one for someone elses. It fits I guess. Wow a lot of blood goes into building a new hand. Gonna try it out and see if it helps me write better or conduct a symphony in paint. Gonna try to see if I can use it to erase the bars made out of paste. Maybe it has a mind of its own. Like my own mind. And Im just a puppet. Like a serious disease thats invisable. Like a serious misstake.

My past is filled with darkness. It over flows and wont shut off. I cant get the crap to turn off. I am gonna break that stainglass window. Its dumb and I love the sound of glass falling in shards to the floor. Estatic! I can use this for some more replacements. Like replacement toes or eyes. Melt down the glass and make some violet eyes for myself. Purple eyes to see in the dark.

Darkness does nothing. Darkness does much. Darkness does laugh at me. I create to save my soul. Creations creating. Like robots pretending to be human. We are what God paints. So how could a artist destroy a masterpiece? You tell me this. What is hell but a place to take out the trash? Why create something so beautiful just to destroy it? Why cant God just recycle?

And I guess heaven is a gallery of souls if hell is a trash can. They got in and everyone knows.

I guess I got the low brow end of the painting scale in life. Guess Im a fictional character in some stupid story just to make you feel like life actually matters. Dreams dont happen in daylight. They happen at night. So I guess the dark and the stars love me. I feel like Van Gough.

All the spelling and grammar mistakes are hers too – I did not change anything.