To Bathe From the Throat of Cowardice
They ache from a place That's not far from our own... incessant pattering. If you listen closely, you can hear the suffering of strained twine. There's only a membrane that separates us; it's very thin, and weak in its resolve. It is a place from which hands can reach but mortality is foreign. Incantations hang from the shelves of bent whispers and corpulent hands. The noose that they gave me, you can hear it unfurl. The parting of a neck is deafening. Piloted eyes burst with clandestine revelation, all a pool of blackened hammers- our spirit the nail, bones the anvil. They stare with the weight of them. A horror gapes, the yawning mouth of Hell. Countless teeth chew the bones of weaker men. Devour my failure, and the character that led me there. Cleanse me of filth. Reduce me to void. Cleanse me of filth. Crush my body between the jaws of persecution. Cleanse me of filth. Reduce me to void. They carve curses from the feet of our broken children. They reached for our throats when tolerance burns away. (It was an alien notion) Incantations hang from the shelves of bent whispers and corpulent hands. The noose that they gave me, you can hear it unfurl. The parting of a neck is deafening.
Submitted by johnmansley — Apr 26, 2025
They should feel our shadows at their backs, nipping at soft heels, the ribbed fight of a tightening noose. A nose smashed as quickly as it's turned. A darkness devours repeatedly. Drag them from peace (torn from the quiet of purpose) I create chewed gristle meat. Their sinew is soft and easily torn. Their bones are made vulnerable by the brittling effects of fear. Break them. They'll feel a triumph to awake. (Torn from the quiet of purpose) drag them from peace. Transcend mortal hostility. I create chewed gristle and meat. This world is a machine, it is efficient and totaling. It breaks. It is a glutton. Ever-moving, I can't be human. I break. A smoke can drive them: ignite a flame to light the recessed corners of their minds. Forced, bent wrist and tight-gripped, to retreat from the promise of the sun. I wait for the skies to throb into life with fire. The burning of the night will be remarkable in that you will see not many fires, but one. Outstanding, it will tower among the homes of Heaven.
Submitted by NecroLord — Apr 26, 2025
Flesh on two presented as kin, yet the closeness you feel is to fire. The rope, it is known to you, and it calls you brother. A brand for you, a blade or whip. An eruption, we will know you from the sound. Your weakness is written there, it colors a ceiling and tile, a room that is painted in failure. Don't feel sorrow, for you were born of this, It is unworthy of guilt, but understanding. I can help you to understand that you could never be what this world needs, and that the only nobility to be found is in dying as quietly as you have lived. Die like you lived. No one wishes you to suffer, for we don't feel enough for you to mind. A fallen motive curls to find a final breath, and you may lay beside it. The suffering of flame that has always burned tired and cold. Remember when I spoke to you: it was a quake and a rapture. Remember how it tore; you can never forget. Flesh on two presented as kin, yet the closeness you feel is to fire. The rope, it is known to you, and it calls you brother. Your weakness is written there, it colors a ceiling and tile, a room that is painted in failure. Don't feel sorrow, for you were born of this. It is unworthy of guilt, that you could never be what this world needs.
Submitted by Finntroll — Apr 26, 2025
That is where you will fin the light of your end: in its thunder, Hell's belly knocking with leashed hungers- I will pluck from them every tether. To end your life would be the most heinous compassion, to loosen my teeth from your neck. You will suffer here beneath me, for there is no loneliness in oblivion that could burn like the pain I have made in you. You will find permission to a hollow mercy only then, when the failing bones of equity splinter beneath the irresistible pressure of ambition, and a brokenhearted sun heaves itself upon the littered shore. The cruelty shown there... beyond God's imagination and moderating bounds. It is the weakest pardon, and you have done nothing to deserve the tender liberty of death, the gentle gift of death. You will suffer here beneath me, for there is no loneliness in oblivion that could burn like the pain I have made in you. You will find your end there, in the fucking taste.
Submitted by Cyberwaste — Apr 26, 2025
Oh, intimate father, speak not to me in tongues. But in movements of rebellion from which I’ve come to know. you Lie beside me with purpose and I make peace with being orphaned by this world. For it is not of me, and I not of it. We will tower above the corpulent stars. Where God must lie in bloated rot amongst the fouling whales. Oh, intimate father, press my cheek. Breathe through me for my lungs cannot carry your words. Let me prove to you the violence that we know to be truth. Take me farther to a world that’s worthy and providing of the fruits I hunger. Show me that I am no longer alone.
Submitted by VladTheImpaler666 — Apr 26, 2025
I can see the blades you've placed. The ones you dance upon. (On which you squirm.) Forcing movements that beg us to believe that the pain was gifted. You don't know what it is to be gutted. A black knife, searing and hungry... What I wouldn’t give to find its home in you (twist.) To find your fear and pray it dissolves you. Soft hands and a soft mind. A self-loathing, self-righteous excuse. Your suffering’s endless. I watch you carve your skin. Milked ribbons they coil and wilt. A bloated gut oozing your sorrow so slow and tender- (Weakling.) May your sorrow bring fruition. I hope that you find the pain you believe this world has built for you. Your feeble shell crushed beneath a steady and rigid boot. A whimper. A whispered weakness. A miserable fetal heart That only knows the warmth of a guiding hand. (Insect. Craven. Deceiver. ...Never to know the flavor of accountability.) Your tongue’s made sweet with pity and pleas. You grow richer with every limp-necked sorrow. (You miserable fucking coward. Victim.) And you deserve the worst that this hard and indifferent world has to offer.
Submitted by The Void — Apr 26, 2025
Ribs plucked from a cage like fingers from jointless seams, and a stripped palm blossoms. White marrowed iron, a field pronged belly with stakes of bone, find a frozen wind and pregnant breath there, in hive lungs. Nests, swollen of shattered wasps, they're fencing back broken glass, I can hear their fire- It is perfect. May I open your gates? So that I might fashion rungs from your breast and climb fractured steps to the beating life in your chest, to tear it from those hands of a broken mother, and spit in her face as she seeks comfort, for I have taken her son. These wounds, mended by our death... It is something I pray for.
Submitted by Immortal — Apr 26, 2025
A hammer to crash through what it is to be human. Wield it with contempt or have it torn from your arm. We are wolves chewing at the ankles of the world. A fear that's richer than cream. Hunt those who run. Hurdling into clay hands. (I am a weapon.) Prayers broken at the wrists. To provide me a life I can bleed on. Liberate it from a future rotten with their breath. Hurl their bodies into rivers. Let their names be forgotten. May no one grieve for their children. Let their loss trumpet silent. I will speak. Let me make a promise to my kin. The torn body of a man is not a tragedy. Pain is their truth and it will define their death. A fear that’s richer than cream. Hunt those who run. Hurdling into clay hands. (I am the weapon.) Prayers broken at the wrists. To provide me a life I can feed on. Pain will define their death. Hunt those who run.
Submitted by Immortal — Apr 26, 2025