There’s something sadistically beautiful found at the center of a tragedy.
Persuasive forces destroy a calculated creation with no strategy.
This dark pull watches light escape the face.
A dark pull feeds poison, and one can’t explain why, but they love the taste.
A dark pull makes it too easy to disappear without a trace.
There’s something forgettably mesmerizing about the storm’s cycle.
The routine appears the same each night it passes.
But with each new storm comes brand new lashes.
The pain so predictable, but it’s always a surprise.
The pain so pure, it can’t hide behind disguise.
There’s something strangely normal in the feeling pain gives.
The tense pain never seems to change.
The dense brain always stays the same.
A storm swells as the seasons lose their warmth.
Ice covers the ground, and the soul conforms.
There’s something painfully healing in the way the brain operates.
Pieces of sadness bring a comfort to celebrate.
Melancholy’s like rainfall and has such a distinct cold feeling.
It’s conceived in the skull and works its way to the chest.
Every drop of blood’s soon infected, that sensation brings out the worst, but it feels the best.
There’s something delicately structured in a soul consumed by a dark energy.
A single strand of light takes it all away, but just for a moment.
Just for a moment, the soul’s floating in the depths of outer space.
Just for a moment, the heart beats at a normal pace.
Only a moment the storm stops flowing, soon again, a shadow covers the lonely poet.
There’s something vulnerably stable found in the very center of chaos’ nucleus.
Ions move with the storm instead of driving alone.
Each step a chore for the skeleton constructed of scraping bones.
No matter the amount of courage that’s grown
There’s no step more chilling than one on a path of unknown.
Look from side to side, one can only see disaster.
Look for too long, and the walls spin even faster.
But how beautiful it is and always will be,
Surviving in the very center of chaos
Is always me.
Chew my tongue like it’s gum.
Pinch the skin in between the pointer and thumb.
Why does feeling winter always mean feeling numb?
Temperature’s as cold as my eyes are blue.
In the storm, nothing’s false, and nothing’s true.
In chaos, nothing changes, and nothing’s new.