Words > Me

Hello, thank you for clicking on this digital book of poetry. These are in no way final. I may rewrite them some day and repost them, these are what just comes to mind whenever I listen to music or as dreams and I do apologize if any of this offends you I in no way want to offend anyone. So, thank you if you take the time to read anyone of these in your busy day. Thank you.


21. Mass


We’re just a pile of masses,

A bag of rotting membranes.

That need to be stitched

With copper wires to keep our insides in.

We’re filled with thick putrid fluids

That excrete and ooze through the holes

Of our badly stitched limbs.

Every single time we move.


Anything we touch,

Anything we see,

Anything we taste.

Becomes corrupted,

Becomes crooked,

Becomes defiled.

Our poor excuses for “Hands”





And stained with the blood

Of our own,

Our own that we eat.

Our own that becomes another

Pile of rotting flesh,

And decayed bone

That is stained with the color of urine


Why do we eat ourselves?

Why do we destroy ourselves?

What is so beautiful about a bag of rotting flesh?

Why can’t you see?

The monster inside you, the deformed being.

That tries to paint off its imperfections

With watercolors and acrylics.

Paint away at the infected holes

That start to excrete pus

Why are you destroying yourself?

Bag of flesh, you’ll never be anything more

Than a revolting and repulsive thing.

What’s so good about your mask?

The one you painted on permanent,


Why do you walk around with a pretty persona?

When you smell of decayed skin

And mildewed bone


Why are we so addicted to the taste of rotten blood?

Why are we so addicted to the feeling of decayed skin in our tongue?

Why do we get high off the putrid scent the seeps out our pores?

What is it the drives you bag of disintegrating flesh?










Is it the small world that you created in your mind?

Where no one will leave you?

Because you know you’re a nauseating thing?


But, don’t you ever leave for too long

Because when you’ll come back,

You’ll notice that this world is lived inside

Dark red pulsating walls

That have bags of flesh

That are quietly scuffing here and there.

And if you really want to leave.

Well maybe,

You’ll finally fine out

How beautiful self-destruction is.



We’re just a pile of masses,

Who must be reconstructed,

From the pile of pulp.

With hot glue

And nails.

Because, just like everyone else

We’ll always be a degenerating bag of rotting flesh.


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