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Literature Text
These aren't nightmares, they're worse than nightmares. They're these terrors. And it feels as if somebody was choking me.
Playback.
These aren't nightmares, they're worse than nightmares. They're these terrors. And it feels as if somebody was choking me.
Playback.
These aren't nightmares, they're worse than nightmares. They're these terrors.
Playback.
They're these terrors.
Playback.
Terrors.
Sometimes you wake up in a cold sweat. Sometimes you see flames. You see people that you love dying, dying horrible, gruesome deaths. You see people that you hate outliving you. You can't sleep. For long, anyways.
Another night. Morning rose.
Smiles haunt you. Joy forgets you. Happiness skips you. Ghosts, they avoid you. At the end of the world, before falling, the last thing you see is the body of your most cherished one floating by. They are dead. And so are you.
Another night. After day.
You lie in wait for sleep to come. Sleep never comes. You have these terrors. They aren't nightmares, they're worse than nightmares. They're these terrors. You shake. You have tremors run through your body. You run from it, but it always catches you. You can't sleep and it's always there. Always. Except... for when it isn't.
Another night. Or maybe two more. No, just one.
You haven't left the bed in days. You see it. It's always there. It coaxes you to the edge of sanity and tempts you to jump. But you always relapse, back to sanity. Back to what you can recall as sanity. Sometimes you see flames. Sometimes you break out into a cold sweat. Sometimes you think you're sleeping and you relax, but then he comes back. You rest anyways.
He isn't Satan, he's worse than Satan. He is Nothing.
He stands over you and he watches you. He holds the visualization of your most dreaded and feared death in his hand. He plays it for you. He never speaks and doesn't force you to watch it, so you avoid it as much as you can. But you know it's there, you know what it is. He knows it, too. He thinks he knows it.
You used to pray. Pray to God. Pray to the spirits you were told commanded this world. They will answer you. In time.
They aren't there. You know that. You always knew that. It used to be a comfort, thinking that you had a savior waiting to do his job at your whim. But that allusion has been driven off by him. There is only he and nothing more. He stands over you on your tenth night. Your tenth second.
You're dying, but you don't feel any different. The sun hasn't risen in days. A ray through a lone window. Hope?
You pull the covers over you a little further. The white sheets are cold. Chilling. You feel them on your bones, but not on your skin. What skin? He spoke today. He told you he would always be there for you. No he won't, you know that.
For you. He'll be gone soon.
You died today. He pulled the red sheets up to your chin and tucked you in before leaving you. He left you a present. He put it just by the bedside a few feet from your face. It is that visualization. It is nothing, and it doesn't bother you so much anymore.
You have given in. You were forced in.
Before you is the constant broadcast of your worst imagined death. You stare at it for hours. For months. For a century and another. You close your eyes.
Playback.
Playback.
These aren't nightmares, they're worse than nightmares. They're these terrors. And it feels as if somebody was choking me.
Playback.
These aren't nightmares, they're worse than nightmares. They're these terrors.
Playback.
They're these terrors.
Playback.
Terrors.
Sometimes you wake up in a cold sweat. Sometimes you see flames. You see people that you love dying, dying horrible, gruesome deaths. You see people that you hate outliving you. You can't sleep. For long, anyways.
Another night. Morning rose.
Smiles haunt you. Joy forgets you. Happiness skips you. Ghosts, they avoid you. At the end of the world, before falling, the last thing you see is the body of your most cherished one floating by. They are dead. And so are you.
Another night. After day.
You lie in wait for sleep to come. Sleep never comes. You have these terrors. They aren't nightmares, they're worse than nightmares. They're these terrors. You shake. You have tremors run through your body. You run from it, but it always catches you. You can't sleep and it's always there. Always. Except... for when it isn't.
Another night. Or maybe two more. No, just one.
You haven't left the bed in days. You see it. It's always there. It coaxes you to the edge of sanity and tempts you to jump. But you always relapse, back to sanity. Back to what you can recall as sanity. Sometimes you see flames. Sometimes you break out into a cold sweat. Sometimes you think you're sleeping and you relax, but then he comes back. You rest anyways.
He isn't Satan, he's worse than Satan. He is Nothing.
He stands over you and he watches you. He holds the visualization of your most dreaded and feared death in his hand. He plays it for you. He never speaks and doesn't force you to watch it, so you avoid it as much as you can. But you know it's there, you know what it is. He knows it, too. He thinks he knows it.
You used to pray. Pray to God. Pray to the spirits you were told commanded this world. They will answer you. In time.
They aren't there. You know that. You always knew that. It used to be a comfort, thinking that you had a savior waiting to do his job at your whim. But that allusion has been driven off by him. There is only he and nothing more. He stands over you on your tenth night. Your tenth second.
You're dying, but you don't feel any different. The sun hasn't risen in days. A ray through a lone window. Hope?
You pull the covers over you a little further. The white sheets are cold. Chilling. You feel them on your bones, but not on your skin. What skin? He spoke today. He told you he would always be there for you. No he won't, you know that.
For you. He'll be gone soon.
You died today. He pulled the red sheets up to your chin and tucked you in before leaving you. He left you a present. He put it just by the bedside a few feet from your face. It is that visualization. It is nothing, and it doesn't bother you so much anymore.
You have given in. You were forced in.
Before you is the constant broadcast of your worst imagined death. You stare at it for hours. For months. For a century and another. You close your eyes.
Playback.
Literature
...
fine then, just leave me alone
let me rot in this "shithole" existence
you don't like it?
well it's none of your business
try to turn me around
put me on "the right path"?
it won't work
you haven't experienced such wrath
and then experienced the everlasting calm
but you'll never understand
all you know is the bad
all you remember is sad
i'm sorry you felt the need to cut me off
it's a real shame
and you weren't even involved
as if our friendship was a game
well i miss your friendship
you hurt me just as badly
as the one you criticize
still, i would renew our bond, gladly
if you weren't this way or that
stubborn, hard headed
just open you
Literature
Nocte
Hiding from the beast,
From tree to tree,
Running in the dark,
I tell myself such things,
Slow- so it won't find you,
Breath.
These fires have scorched far and wide,
Leaving the scent of my former cinders to linger in my head,
Like some bad bender,
Warped memories encircling grey,
The ground is made of shattered glass,
Broken dreams.
No lilies remain,
To any kingdom I run,
In mirrors of liquid glass,
Surrealist battles are won,
And like fear,
The spider crawled from my mouth.
They are sedating everything,
Brush pixilated,
Focus changing,
Leaving me to run in the dark,
Caught in the eye of the storm,
Hiding in the calm.
Literature
Enemmies
I am the CEO
I am the judge and jury
I am the big spender
I am the iron fist
I am the decider
I am the forest
I am the greenery
I am the deer and the doves
I am the usable space
I am the decision
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Comments10
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Kind of nostalgic but well written! ^^