Modern Romanticism

Unbroken hurts,
Faceless smiles,
Hurried hands
That part the skin to be closed,
I am in madness.

The pain I seek
To create the sting
Upon an already-disordered and used-up soul
Has made me feebler,
Born as the hungry Father of Cruelty.

I feast
Upon the beasts
To grow stronger, than the claimed spirit
I still possess,
Who is undressed.

Rotting fingers,
Wailing lungs,
Wilted form, among nestling pain.
Give me more grief
So that I may sleep.

Madness,
Conjectures,
Lies,
Families rent apart by my loathsome,
Cheerful self.

I want to cry
As I want to laugh.
I desire not sleep,
As I love to lie awake
To see my veins open themselves, closed.

God is but a blanket of disorder,
As I am the felled ashes of order.

If beauty is the skin,
Then I am its debris.