An insignia of the scattered murder

Journal entry

I'm getting tired of these insecurities and public discretion for the weak hearted succumb to pain and rigorous joy Washing the blood off the curtains something in the void has surfaced. We waited till dusk for the breeze to end and her cries were just a mask under turmoiled skin. Keeping blogs of lost thoughts and dismembered recollections, hatred and stress but the soul is vacant. the birds scorch the sky living without a single thought or an identifiable emotion. what hurts in the insomnia when you're asleep with those hissing thoughts and regardless of the echoes of manipulative voices all i want is to do is die! there's a certain peace that occasionally washes over when i'm high that maybe this really isn't going to last forever and peace will find me. i hope it happens soon because i can't find one single reason to be alive. a euphoric death is the ideal and unmastered but appreciated when the poppy grew in my soul i nibbled on its perfect serum and texture for a sensational numbness and splendor that doesn't last forever and yes I'm listening to Avril whine about her bitchy relationships not an immense close resemblance to many bored white women who scream in the forgotten dark. an accident is bliss. forever dealing with mood swings. the dangers of being human waving a free hand to provide an irresponsible attack and these f*****g writing escapades with no passion because i suffer from the illusion i have to do something great with my life. madness found me three years ago when the ghost of a woman betrayed my unconditional support and prospered when i failed and found myself in the gutter. if resurrection was possible i'd opt out of this particular soul and possess a different body.