| POETRY In my world, love is a storm where escape ceases to exist. A horn of emotion, Infused in a whirlwind of sacrifice with thorny strings attached to another’s heart. A single tug rips; it hurts And leaves a malignant tumor of regret A single pull encourages more blood till there’s nothing but a gaping hole … and a parched soul. In his world, love is a blackhole A place devoid of warmth, where mind suffers vulnerability And physique falls victim to the darkness inscribed in his fate. In our cursed world, love is an additional curse to several stones re-carving our backs – or maybe – it’s simply just another typo for the universe’s script writer’s hate.
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| POETRY TO THE LAST chance of humanity: They lied to us. My dearest walking corpse: You're saved. You need - you must spread, to warn and, if God even survived after this, to save those you can! Preach it to the world, your resurrection is near! God... the whole situation ... It's worse than it looks. And it's better than ever. Whether it be on Wikipedia or in textbooks – Nightmares are shadows here. Just about every media outlet in existence since the devastation of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, our governments have spoon-fed us nothing but lies. Endowed with Eve's innate sin from the first breath, everyone is haunted by an inner demon. Ones as effective as poison. Though some find the strength to conquer them, many remain trapped under their growing shadows... but neither of those people matter. Not since World War II. "Those bombs were the most lethal and unpredictable weapons the world had at that time," they broadcasted to a universe torn from bloodshed. Since that date stamp, everything in this world revolves around the rest who embrace it with all their being. "They were the last resort." The breachers of the border of Earth and Hell. Lies. Nah, babe. It's all bull. It goes much deeper than that... There has always been something much worse. The mere thought of it excites me... Where do I start? It's something that's been keeping he North Korean border security on high alert. Something that makes Putin crack a sweat. Something that's been sitting right next to you, laughing with you, or sleeping on the opposite side of the bed with groggy love-struck eyes and your heart's mutuality wrapped around its finger; completely oblivious of its true nature. 'The End Army. Death-spreaders. Murderers – ' the list goes on forever. In every language. In every government's file. And yet they could be your best mate, your ex or that stripper you waste your rent money on. They've managed to have kept them hidden from the rest of us, asleep for generations. Each and every day of life, you're surrounded by these dormant volcanoes. Unaware of the nuclear bombs ticking inside of their bodies. That was true until three weeks ago... Yeah, three weeks ago tables turned.... Ever since ... That day glass bullets rained and that family ... ... the Johnson family were the first to go missing to be later found decapitated and mauled into an inhumanely unrecognizable state, everything has... ... such artistry. Everything has gone to hell. I'm in heaven. Strict curfews in every city. Armed soldiers in even the darkest corner. It's a party suited for a King of destruction – and his fellow knights of the Blood Table awaiting to be woken from their deep slumber. Plagued with a cannibalistic apocalypse with unidentifiable zombies, the world fears of going to sleep ... … and even more so not waking up. Forget we are alone. Embrace it and thrive. Forget we are alone, and maybe you might survive.
The Mortified. x The Corrupted.
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POETRY
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