Overcuming The Whore Of Hate

beneath me an abyss stinking of darkness

full of days extorted from memory

full of days that can't be born for me

at least alive

i behold

i deceive myself

maybe it's not inside

(maybe) anger of mine or at least my mediocrity

restrained thick air within nostrils of mine

so well that its claws could not reach further

so well that if not heart at least mind

is still able to choose

now im almost certain of it

certain of advantage

i am able to accept even those all lost days

mysterious hours, which i cannot count

to rejoice that im able to assemble

all the pieces of broken mirror

and not to remember all pictures it holds

and not to remember words

which poured out of me

like a pus...

who am i able to become

if deep wounds made by nails

most likely made by madly clenched fists

are able to be seen upon my hands?

and arms and neck are decorated by

jewelry of crust

taking particular forms

not because of accident?