Angels Of Filth

I just woke up in a black hole feeling what I once left aside,

trying to get out of it but I can’t; anger churns inside me.

I think about the memories of when I used to feel like a

dead child; it’s not addiction, it’s my thoughts twisting like

teeth on metal—impossible to reach, impossible to forget.

I’m in a state where I remember nothing, as if wandering

disoriented through crossroads full of death with a smell

of sulfur. Stabs pierce me as I see myself at the starting

point, increasingly driven deeper without escape.

My thoughts overwhelm me; I need to eat from that apple

that resets the soul to zero like a lobotomy with a

cemetery taste; hatred will devour my brain.

This is not easy, it’s not safe; I’m just babbling—my soul

and heart are paralyzed. Hiding in that forest, I looked at

those roses; they are no longer red but black.

My soul reminds me again: live, survive even if your heart

is irritated—no matter how strong the irons are, your spirit

is made of cement.