dregonskreper

Blasting bolts of steel fibers hold it's freezing madness, The mechanical souls of light and carbonate await for only a single process to occur. Their harmonic cries resonate at the same temperature as the oblivion of a five-planet solar system. Chunks of gases erode every second from the system's main core, Burning, floating objects soaring around its virtuated skies. At its thousandth year in captivity an object similar to it beams toward it. Energies opposite in nature react with the cooling temperatures of the prison's deceased reaction. Equilibrium process is sped up, the demon souls finally awaken. The once containing structure, now in flares, Melts to floating molten clouds hardening to spiraling asteroids moving aimlessly searching for an orbital.

Racing the halls of critters and mice Rushing through the thick forest with haste Pushing away pests who wander about A horde of lifeless zombies crowd the air They are like ants to a picnic Mindlessly marching Diving past the halls of music Voices chirp cheerful tunes that echo as death calls Violins scream the cries of sheet music A guitarist shreds out his instrument's soul And the pianist burns his fingers with a collage of chords Scram to history class late And it's World War two again Children fire their paper airplanes at one another A ball is tossed in the air like a bomb The troublemakers take cover in the shelter of desks The chaos continues on from each class One warzone to the next in this endless network Fail a test or pass it, these matters are of life or death The bell rings and school finally makes it's peace treaty The troops at last go home and rest awaiting their next call of duty

Treacherous rodents with filth hands of corruption, Like politicians handing away germs of filth desires. They have their dirt children, bring forth their dirt infections, As dirt people devour greed for their dirt prejudices. Muck is their food and spoiled rags be their grain. Infidels, without discretion, pour their wastes down the rivers, Once pure liquid is now pure filth. Breed, like germs that feed on luscious flesh, Tragic, we feed on the lesser beings, Our narcissism and naivety of our so-called civilization. We're the worms they feast, We're the voices of their dead. Don't worry little ones you'll be worse then us, Children are the most dangerous little rats.

The thoughts that flow through the brain are like echoes in a cavern. Beaming across constantly never stopping even if the user is at rest. The mind is a fourth dimension infused in an advanced computer program. Through the wormhole to this other dimension is a wall of past thoughts and memories, they unfold a childhood that you had once thought to have forgotten forever. Continuing through the pools of memories images of people and sights appear, Some familiar while others are a complete anomaly to you. Traveling across the brain's fortresses of cells we come across a tunnel into hell, All your darkest emotions lay in solitude in this endless prison cell. The psychopathic impulses of anger burn fire across every corner of its confined walls. Depression darkens itself around everything it touches revealing only black nothingness. Deviant self-preserved feelings of rapture seek for flaws in everything it sees. The emotions constantly siege war against each other infusing their negative

Creeping on this hollow night Shadowy figures wander through A drunk goes out alone Watching a stranger walk silently to a home Seeing a knife come to his hand, The drunkard drops his liquor. As the stranger walks in the house, A faint scream echoes. A dead body tumbles a fleet of stairs. It’s limbs dragged out, Head chopped off. “Murder!” the alcoholic shouts, “Bloody Murder!” Here comes the chase, Killer hunts the witness Stupidity it was for the drunk to yell, His wits have betrayed him. The killer takes advantage of the drunk’s state, Constantly stoning him with rubble. Trip on a vine, His throat is divine. Slit off his useless struggle. The time has come, To hide of this crime. For this killer, You are just another man in the attic Come to his home, A horrid stench fills the air, Covered up by sweet fragrances...suspicious. The ceilings are always dripping with red paint, At least that’s what he says it is. “Don’t come in the attic.” He says, “You won’t be happy with what you

The first number I think of when I am thinking of what I will think of when I think of a number. The time I wake up every morning before becoming frustrated by a monstrous day that will probably end in misery and me utterly bored to death. Your greatest dream! The anti-christ of the number 13 and every rabbit's dream come true. You will find candy canes and all the wonderful miracles of chocolates in the house of Seven. A luck of such epic proportions will cloud you wherever you go. The day of the author's birthday on a month that makes this day more infamous then it was intended. A dozen, the building blocks of an egg case. A number that brings bad luck, terror, misfortune, and ridiculous superstition to others. It is a number that is prayed upon by all manners of black cats, witches, vampires, and any other critter of the infamous world of evil. Add this number by one hundred and you get 117, Master Chief's number. 25. What do you get when you multiply 5 and 5 together? What happens

Sliding through an array of black and white keys, Fingers dance a solitary march. We are symbiotic creatures dancing an eternal tune, I decide it and you shall play it. Our quiet little duet is only silenced by my queer headphones. Half of you is pale and other is blackened like night. There are no stains on your slick, flawless design. I control your every move, commanding your every sense, deciding your every thought. You are made from a monstrous beast, however sized down into a gentle giant. I'll bash you harder then rape with the sharp incisions of my nails, even with all the rage I instill to you, you feel nothing as you are a lifeless machine. The many voices you have as you change to a guitar, a bird, and once again a keyboard.

Dark alleys are his playground He moans a silent tune His hair is as thick as a bouquet of hay As gray as the smoke from a chimney The sky is a black mist The living monstrosity remains still Pupils dilate a pure black inkling Its face is red with the color of blood The freezing air only further amplifies the rage within him Feelings are so intense that veins pop right out of him The air is poisoned with pestilence The living monstrosity bleeds fire Holding a sign with his right hand A message of the needy is told He is a poor peasant of this land A dark face which breaks through like a shard of glass The moon is full and lonely The living monstrosity is lost forever

Every morning I would wake up from the same dream. A dream where a knight in white armor and blonde locks would take me away on a black stallion to a land of cakes and handsome men. He would lift me with his broad shoulders and let me rest in a field of flowers. Butterflies would float about as his fragrances teased my senses. Our lips were about to meet and my virginity passionately broken when a bright light shined into my eyes obliterating this dream world. The sun was penetrating through the glass of my bedside window. A pretty spectacle of white light glazed upon my dark room. My mother must have pulled the curtains up while I was asleep. She always does that worrying I will turn into a ghost if I become too pale. A butterfly was hovering above a purple flower outside of the window. A pot full of many colored flowers stood by the window-side. A single purple flower was the only of its kind amongst the bunch. He must have been an orphan among the flower seeds my mother planted a

It's an empty hole in the ceiling. It's a blank sheet of paper. Thought to be dark and blackened, but can take the form of any color. As long as your eyes are blocked it, you cannot see it. Even when a mass of life is around you, the feeling will still be there. It's a feeling created by the imagination, and it's a choice for you to decide. Hide yourself from the environment surrounding you. Bind yourself to shadows and mists. Condemn yourself to a miserable existence. Only you can choose the path of action. And only you can decide what to do with it. Boredom is it's first path to infection. Depression is it's best. It's first child will be madness, the spawn of insanity and the reason for obscurity. It's second will be self-hatred, a path to suicide or a reason for misery. Commit to something other then a wasted existence. Erase away the troubles that confine you needlessly. Remember what's important and take it from there. Create a mental friend or join with a solid