Crown Feral

And stashed under our seats are the maps not worth the reach with worship squares we keep getting told about... and can't seem to be found. Maybe that's why so many would rather bow out... so there's a connect, as if we're on the same roads to share the same waste and build a way to ungraves. Close our aisles, less with give and get what we have. To erase. To erupt. To erase. To erupt. Let go of our aims, let go of our best, let go of the wheel and let in the crash.

Submitted by Dahmers Fridge — Apr 26, 2025

Preachers in the little deaths, they got what they've asked. They got an autumned hearse as it drove right by. And I all got together and I all dropped together and I all tossed and turned as I drowned out my peace. I had my own little deaths with my own little kinds. War is my mistress adore, the one that I've always had. War is the mainline mirage that fills what I can't. In the eyes of the has-beens, in the trails of the animal cunts and I know my own little deaths. War is my mistress adore that I'll always have. War is the mainline that feels what I can't. And when my bankrupt neck and my skull full of debt can't stand. I'm making my way towards death's wooden door and I'm bringing a fucking battering ram... I'll bring a fucking battering ram in the name of the kindred dirt. In the name of our failures, in the name of our failures well-earned. All of us has-beens, all of us animal cunts... all of us bleed in the name of all of us born with hellionaire blood.

Submitted by Corpse Defiler — Apr 26, 2025

Things get done here, so don't ask me for hands to hold out. They're held up by their own underneaths. No, not for the trusters that trust that they can be home returners, all dismentioned, all disgathered. Around here are white walls and they stay white walls. Past those hands, past those wrists are the arms decorated with a constellation of holes the size of the cigarette burns that marks the faith in delirium return. Around here are white walls. Around here, things can only get done when the hearts starve. Around here, they know what they need to move on. They need to mar, need to maul and to spite and swallow down sleep. And fucking repent.

Whole watchers, sheer trusters of a greater path. I'm sure that somewhere you can find it and you can get there. As long as it's far away from me. I've got a gospel to spade your grace. I've got a gospel to fuck out all you can say. And I will. It's full of motherfuckers and snares for the paragon lives. It's actus reus and it's all you will find. If it's downward spirals here, they're down by mine. We carry out parts numb in by time, grey fortune cordial crux. Whole watchers, sheer trusters, I've got a gospel and it says "No, not for this collide. Not for an only and not for survive. If it's downward spirals here, then they'll all end up down by mine."

Submitted by MetalElf — Apr 26, 2025

Past traits and past leaps, it's been strung, it's been drawn. Gauntlet hums and knocks because it's all runners all around, with never an urge for the gradual highs. We crack our own whips and make sure to break skin. We commit. We grow one with the crime. There's no backroom deal to be bought. There's no briefcase to exchange. There's nothing held in your hands that we don't know how to take and nothing in our eyes but purebred renegade sate. They started tapping the lines, so don't call and don't write. Prowlers in us are the beacons alive, the bastion hooks that rend honor to the stable spines. We crack our own whips. We make sure to break skin. We commit. We grow one with the crime. Send a bleak aura. Send dirty water. Send instant wreck is what we do best. Spawn vanish. Preach malice. Rid closure in chance and digest everything sour.

Submitted by MetalElf — Apr 26, 2025

Else early on, infernos exhaled... else early on, young and hungry, you don't need to be told, don't need to be asked. It's clear, because we're finished, because we're out of all the lasts. And down by the ruin, that's all there is. Later on, sure enough, degrade into night. I don't need any wants, don't hold out for any needs... there's still enough stuck to our cavities for all the desperate to always outnumber the free. And fucking cross down by the ruin. Else early on, you don't need to be told.

Submitted by Warbringer — Apr 26, 2025

It's the sadist teeth in me, the fake ones I use to bite my own tongue and let the blood fill until it's ready to leak. Outfine every pair of parched fucking lips and watch as they drink as I spit. I sold it straight from the bottle because the glass is thick enough when death holds a quiet gold and simple tax gets lost in the dust. It's replaced by roaring murders and the decimate fucks. It's the sadist teeth in me, with a drive to be there for the hanging. It's the sadist teeth in me, rendered immobile under all the fresh wide graves. I've crept through your windows and I watched the cobwebs collect. I've looked on as your gardens flood and cement in your driveway cracked. It's the sadist teeth in me and honesty from the shit like us is spoken like library screams. Still stacked on silent complete. It's the sadist teeth in me. It's the sadist in me. All abound, it's the sadist in me.

Submitted by Grave666 — Apr 26, 2025

Because the old soul never has its time. Because the old soul won't rid the midnight of empty air. And the pills are bitter and it sours the slit and the body works just to dose out the aches. And a hope made back is a hope that won't burden me, because the old soul ain't no soul of mine. In the bodies here, still leathering on, are the bodies still rigid and fought. Because the old soul never has its sounds. It's just empty breaths from empty mouths. I know the dragging of daylight feet, know the sheen of condemnation masks. And there won't be any light from me. And there won't be any name of faith that'll bury with me. In an old soul face and in old soul time, it ain't no soul of mine. And the most I want is the bones I have because there ain't no soul of mine.

Submitted by Immortal — Apr 26, 2025

En vault. Prosper-termed, spoken like an innocent plain. Passive and practiced in all goes the one in the same. Because to me, and the mirrored beneath, it's the violence to see and the miles to receive. It's all "and"s and "so"s, picking at scabs and gaping whole. The eyelids awake duress like made reminding of trailing laughter in the league of the least. It's all "and"s and "so"s, picking at scabs on every throat by every fray. Stray of the tongue speak the violent ones.

Submitted by The Void — Apr 26, 2025

You need it for the guilt and defeat. You need it to steam up the mirrors as we face and we turn. We became magic. We became illusionists. It made you live for night, made you fuck the worth of dawns. The crescent digs in the palms of the traumas in tow and nothing but the hours in eyes, whether lost or survived, make it known. Yes, it's known. With every scar, every scathe and every mistake, you've got the blood on your hands built by the scratching of sticks. It made you live for night, made you fuck the worth of dawn and you birthed the blood of a world built on the scratching of sticks. We became magic, with no chance, nor rewards in the risk. We became magic. We became illusionists.

Submitted by VladTheImpaler666 — Apr 26, 2025