Growing Old

I put my everything box to a shelf, making it not looked as important as it should be.

My everything box surrounded by worn out books, pickle, old photos, medicines, old gnomes, old monopoly, old magazine, and more books and an old radio.

I see my everthing box radiating a feeling, a sad feeling, thats funny because a box can never feel.

Or maybe this box really did had a feeling, as the box is an amputated part of my body. It used to be my hand, my smile, and what’s inside my ribs.

What’s actually inside that box, you demand,
Nothing much, it’s just my ideal, me as an architect, writer, or photographer, or director, my study, my proud parents, my artist’s vision, my favorite songs, my health, hope, my youth, things that don’t really match with reality.


I Heard HIV Flowing on Your Blood

One sentence change my entire body,
Clap for me,
I am a woman of one sentence

Your blood is ugly, doctors write HIV on it,
Lift your face and shake away that childish tears

Ohh what a different blood
A trace of orgasm circulating,
A part of ecstasy,
Talcum of heroin
A smoke of weed
Sugar, it is happiness flowing

Sugar, let’s stop being stranger and move
To a sacred loving-ship
Be a boyfriend and girlfriend
As a woman like me
Only love a different man, Sugar,
Your happiness flowing irresistible

You said you were afraid
Nah, you can flee with bullet on your brain
Sugar, I love feeling your afraid-of-death-tremble

I cut you,
I drink it,
I drink it,
I drink your blood,
Sugar, our eyes have never been this crazy

Sugar I’ll wake up differently
every morning I’ll feel weaker
Or just stop waking up
Such a strong destiny,
I am the one who make it

Don’t run,
As I am not insane,
I’m just a woman of one sentence,
‘Don’t be afraid to try new things,’
Maman said that herself.

My Art of Killing – adult only

I take pictures of dead bodies but no one realize it. My art is special, I only take the part of their dead hands doing thumbs up, or peace sign, or fuck off sign in, and their background would be the place where I killed them.

It’s so much fun, as their stiffening hands form unmovable poses, as their rotting body spread a sickening odor, as their blood wont bleed anymore everytime I stab it, I would took angles which making the most beautiful photograph style ever.

Like my favorite, I make a beautiful sunset scenery  considered ugly because of my dead hands, my dead hand forming an U right beside that circle sun, making a perfect dick with a glowing ball. No one would see its bone and red flesh, simply because I zoom at the best place.

God, the feeling of having people liking and complimenting such illegal things is so thrilling. I can feel my blood stirring in thrill, it’s a sensation that I can’t  get enough. I am itching to kill again.

I swear, I am not a psychopath. My reason to kill is simple, I just loove it. Call me insane all you want. I might try to build some horse figure in Lego and I will addicted, I won’t ever stop on my horse figure. Its just I’ve never try it before, I don’t have a reason to be addicted. You still calling me insane, let me tell you this, You are not a saint, you just never kill someone yet, you are not addicted YET.