Originally Posted by German Voodoo

Always weeping from some emoting parasite in your brain, pissing out your eyes.

Originally Posted by German Voodoo

Too many tears, the bad part about loving someone, or wanting to love them. Always, moisture stinging, staining your vision. Happy, sad, furious. Always weeping from some emoting parasite in your brain, pissing out your eyes.(This is a funny visual...)

It feels good, to cry, like picking your bleeding gums(ew...I don't see the connection.), suckling on the sweet fluid sof(typo? misplaced space?) a tear. Sometimes, it's not so pleasant, morbid, you rip out that tooth to burn the infection.

Killing yourself in a mirror. Your blood sluicing down the pane like a fresh soda, reflecting back your suicide. A suicide you foster daily, in tears and love. It's a grand brother with an addiction, a gritty bitch with money. Many things, all coveting pain, worse than.

Is many, like many, still a disservice to compare. Formless as water, you bleed so tropic a soul through those blue eyed wonders. No one can understand even their own, no other's, try they might and met with brick.

It even leaves you shivering, shining. Bad sex, bad love with good traits and silk mistress, it's just hell, hell with you. Luck to be rid of it, riddance to the irony that you can't live without it. With nothing but, just artificial air cycling in your red tears, fueling that stream to die another day.

Worse yet, you cry when smile. Smile in that rapping mirror to find the simple sake of cleansing, burning that germ until it lies on your eyelids.

A hug feels better than nothing, but a drop of glamour, the rare kernel that streams the electric filament, that is tears. That's a medication like no other.

I cried when I died and still drew misery. I thought death brought relief. Avarice was supposed to pass along with me, but it lived longer still. Peculiar that I still have to pay my rent with a silly textile stain taken from my rusted heart. Shelter not in a cosmos, but in a small apartment weeping filth from its walls.

I wish I'd died forever, instead of this timely wait. Sorrow is an unjust placation, a bitter seed biting your tongue.

My face is redder than ever, and I still have my mirrors, my tears. And that burning sore I can't quite soothe, asking me to kill it with hands I don't have. Pity devastation that I wish would rise, in boils I could lance. This hurt, this parasite is a ghost I can only kill by feeding it. Abrasive mothers laying spread legged in your skull, inviting acid wash.

In the end, it gives me a clean peace and my returned apologies.
(Nice ending with the sudden change of emotions, at least for me.)
Cheer up, folks.

Originally Posted by German Voodoo

I hope not to become one who writes silly gibberish and makes the reader say it's too deep for them to understand, so it must be good.