Soul They Say

A tortured soul they say,

I carve blackened blood-made runes into my hand.

The searing bliss of inebriation, I laugh and go mad.

My other fist hits the wall and I buckle over with creased smiles.

I slit my face open to heal the inner - operations.

Lumps arise as purple bubbled pearls.

I fill up with pressure to a sifting boiled oil.

My arm rips into that damned face, and gores it.

That stupid corpse is conceived; asunder.

I grasp on that same final black light,

the perfect rivers of crimson staining the walls.

A blissful agony, much needed and required.

Redeemed is the raunchy overgrowth of the body.

I want to escape, I want to tear at it.

The picks of un-sainted claws defiling the entire damned thing.

Bones are blown about as if simple sugar or slightest masses.

Joyous endeavor of death shit plucking the brown God-death from

the roots of the same uncalled beat of my blood.

The shortcomings and massive wrecked sins treat us all to

perpetual blood-letting beyond the depths of the doors.

That same pile builds on us all, no unrest left.

The door is snapped and clicks to the tune of sanctuary.

The poor melted souls cut and break, as ice should, on blue stones.

That is inevitable that all of them will spread soon enough.

And so, upon realization, that is the sin inside of me.