he could count the major events
in his life on a
mangled hand's fingers
But this was one of them. The day she took him
to church.
So that's what girlfriends are for.
But he didn't like the church
didn't like the songs
didn't like the preacher and the preaching
the man spoke of hell. But he
didn't know
shit about hell. No baby, hell's not a place
where you go,
it's a place where you stay. Namely, a body
and a mind that has no
major passions
no drive towards improvement
no dreams
no goals
no desire to get out and connect with the world
no love to share
no stories to tell or disposition to listen
no reasons to live or carry on
In other words, me, motherfucker. I am hell.
He broke up with
his girlfriend the next day. Her crying didn't
affect him
each ‘no’ hits super hard.
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Hell of our making. Love your poem.
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You’re an excellent writer. Dark. Spooky. Blunt. Creepy. Off. Music in a minor key, slightly off key, warped.
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Hell is other people
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It is (-.-)
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