Wrath

Wilderness.
I've returned from a picture of a bloodied beast
mauling a dirty man.
A painter's red is half violence,
half the will to murder his psychopathic self.

Red skies, red grass;
a bloodied scenery.
A robot stood and bled tears;
a killer who never kills.
Nothing.
Leaving behind a severed leg,
two arms with bones extruded,
a brainless head,
a ear chewed in half,
a broken heart.

A defiled man desecrated a shrine,
fucked it with his tortured penis;
drilled a hole in his heart,
fucked it hard.

Drowning in bloodied feces;
sawing off his middle finger and leaving it on earth.
He died very miserably.
The bloodied beast was unsatisfied.
It devoured itself.
It fucked itself.

I left the wilderness.
I hid in my bedroom.
I cut my left arm, sliced my left arm off;
I bled to death.

Reflection

Will you please understand... Must you? You! Clarify opinions, judge my life. "Meaningless"... That is it? Yes, I forfeited sadness for "happiness of murdering my flaw", horrifying my pondering of life... Regretful! My enlightened souls, through dreams of haunting your life (my sin); worst: the regret over tearing me apart, broken me! Had that criminal surrendered you, forgive I, will you?

You will? I forgive you, surrendered criminal that had me broken apart! Me tearing over regret, the worst sin: my life. Your haunting of dreams through souls, enlightened my regretful life of pondering my horrifying flaw: my "murdering of happiness for sadness" forfeited I. Yes, it is that "meaningless" life, my judge. Opinions clarify you! You must understand... Please... You will!

Greed

A simple procedure led to countless deaths;
This is an optimistically dangerous situation.
All odds are against all evens;
Lonely people hopelessly wished for good health.

Reality is outdated;
A beneficial compromise is to be made some time.
Reality will ferociously strike the heart;
The heart desires everything.

Life is but extended, exaggerated boredom;
Clogging the holes with everything.
When people wake up, they desire to sleep again;
Dreams are but dreams.

An insatiable lust for anything else.
A name so strong it borders on pride.
A world devoured by conscious gluttony.
A creative idea conceptualized solely from envy.
A form of wrath so horrifying it enlightens.
A long-term ambition to be a sloth.

My life will be worthless, a sucker for everything;
As for now, I will only greed for a heart.

Pride

I am an artist
I lied
I do not admire art
Art makes me sick
Because I only think of myself as an artist
Although I am still a skillful surgeon
Yet art is still fatally sick
I operated on it
I used rusty tools
I revived art
Therefore, I do not sleep peacefully
So, I step on everyone
As there is a dying world under me
Please forgive me
Because I am only a true artist in my dreams
I am desperate
Because art has no boundaries
Why should I be afraid?
Because I live for art
Why is my life so complicated?
Because art has two phases
My life is the same forwards and backwards
I lied
I am part of the audience

Sloth

Egregious agonies fight me.
Archaic armories shield me.
Let everything rot.
Let the world flounder and rot.
Louder.
I hear voices in my head.
Louder.
They are destroying my sanity.

Sometimes I personify my soul.
Why are we able to see the skies,
A bluish wonder hiding all lies?

This is what we're waiting for;
Life is a great disguise for a hidden rhapsody.
Sung by the ugliest poet, who was a terrorist;
I've became a runaway to the faraway lands.

Rise!
I command you to rise from your grave!
Into your shaved beards!

I'm in a game of child's play,
In such a great world,
I'm enjoying life,
Without rhymes.

Lust

A song of my heart arose suspicion to the arrival of me;
A song verified by a million featureless me's.
A song ran down a sorrowful, yet amazingly merry path;
A song flowed through my words, purified verses in their paths.
A song willingly wallowed in a room which was missing;
A song gracefully, unknowingly leaped and went missing.
A song withered in violence, an endless war and bloodshed;
A song flew away, and when it came, along came bloodshed.
A song with worldly views, a mind so risque it became lust;
A song so innocent when admired; to madmen, it became lust.
A song; false!
A song is made of time.
A song will never belong to ears.
A song will belong to hearts.

Criminal

He rapidly, subconsciously pressed the 'end' key on his black laptop's keyboard. His mind was distracted by absolute nothingness. He was sitting on a four-seated cushioned chair in a modern library. He was listening through a pair of white earphones connected to his computer. 
(Strange, ain't it?)
Inattentive people thought that he was a fast typist, but he was simply harassing the 'end' key. Some took notice of his unorthodox act; their hearts were not at ease.
(Don't look away, I'm speaking to you. This is a two-way conversation.)
He casually removed his left earphone from his ear, as it began to itch. He scratched the exterior part of his auditory canal using his left little finger. He briefly heard the loud conversation of four foreign men sitting opposite to him. They were laughing. While scratching, he continued to press his 'end' key. 
(What am I to you? Am I not being strange enough for your attention?)
He wore his left earphone back. He felt intense discomfort in his bladder. He wanted to urinate. He however, noticed a young man of lean built staring at him from a safe distance. The young man approached him. The former grabbed the typist's right hand; the hand that was murdering the 'end' key.
(Look around you. Do you see anyone tapping their 'end' keys for four hours?)
"What are you doing?" The young man's voice was firm. People started diverting their attention towards them. The typist still had his earphones plugged into his ears. The young man released his grip. He continued tapping the 'end' key.
(Yet, are you not strange? You're the only one who sees everything from your own perspective.)
Onlookers from behind the man peeked at his computer screen; it was a mostly-blank Microsoft Word document with only one word, 'life'. People predicted that he intended to end his life; it was the natural assumption.
(No one else can see the world the same way as you do. You're strange, and no one gives a shit.)
Not a single person knew what to do. Some went off. Some discussed. Some continued to stare at him.
(Oh, you're still here? I see. I do get attention for being strange.)
A man stood behind the typist; he was heavily intoxicated with alcohol. His oral stench shooed people away. The librarians were not pleased; they tried to convince him to leave, but he was persistent. He, too, couldn't resist staring at the typist's right index finger, which was still doing the same thing as ten minutes before. At the same time, he noticed the Microsoft Word document on his computer.
(So it's strange people giving strange people attention? Aren't there stranger stuffs to look at?)
"Go... home?" The drunk man slurred. The typist nodded. He held the 'shift' key and tapped the 'home' key once. He then held the 'down' key. It was a three-key press. The drunk man witnessed the act. He stayed around, staring at his monitor. After four minutes, he nodded and left. He resumed his brutal stabbing of the 'end' key.
(Go home.)
The rapid keyboard clicks managed to irritate the four foreign men sitting opposite him. One of them stood up, walked forward, took away the typist's computer with his left hand, and punched the typist's nose with his right.
(Just go home already. Let me end my life already. Don't look at me anymore.)
The foreign man proceeded to observe his computer screen. He saw the word 'life'. He immediately placed the computer on a nearby wooden table, knelt down before the typist and pleaded for forgiveness. The typist, who was not injured badly, reached for his computer before holding the 'shift' key and pressing the 'home' key once, before nodding.  He then held the 'down' key. It is a three-key press. The foreign man saw that. He kept staring at the screen. He nodded, apologized, and left.
(Go home. Please, just go home... I don't want to deal with strange people anymore...)
Onlookers noticed both scenarios; both occurred after the drunk man and the foreign man carefully observed the Microsoft Word document. As the typist continued his screwing of the 'end' key, others begin to close in to get a clearer picture of the computer screen. Those observant ones hastily apologized and left. Those that still did not understand, along with those that did not bother to care, stayed in the library.
(… you're still here? Why? Is the strangeness of my life simply for your entertainment?)
As his head was shielding the majority of the computer's small screen, along with his slightly slanted sitting position, only one person at a time could understand; this person, at any time, will have to stand at a very strict viewing angle to the right of his computer screen. Otherwise; it will never be possible to understand. 
(Look, alright, first off, if you're reading this before reading the complete passage, stop.)
Every single time, without fail, when he realized that a person understood, he will hold the 'shift' key before pressing the 'home' key. There will be no pressing of the 'down' key.  Everyone who understood the purpose of the 'end' key and witnessing the two-key press will leave. 
(I confess.)
That was twelve in the afternoon; the library closes at four. During those four hours, the typist kept changing his seat; initially he was at a corner of the third floor, then he was moved to another corner, and another. He managed to visit all four corners of all four floors of the square-shaped library at least four times per hour, with a total of sixteen times per corner. Also during that time, some people, including four of the fourteen librarians, understood the typist and left. 
(I planned this, but I can't do this alone. Several others have to be involved.)
At four, the typist stopped typing. He stood up, pulled out a pistol and shot himself in the head.
(There were four people. Me, the typist, the drunk man, and the foreign man.)
Everyone who was still at the library was traumatized for life. All of them were deemed witnesses and summoned to the police station to give a detailed report; some were even suspected as perpetrators of the crime, even though it was, from the surface, a case of suicide. At least 40% of these witnesses committed suicide some time within the next four years, due to trauma resulting from the incident.
(I'm not the typist. I simply prepared this passage. I'm just a librarian.)
The library closed down the next day. It never reopened.
(Me, the typist, the drunk man, and the foreign man, all shot ourselves at four in the evening.)
Police investigations revealed that the typist's computer's 'home' key and 'end' key were switched around. His rapid tapping of the 'end' key brought the blinking text cursor to the beginning, or the 'home', of a sentence, which was to the left of the word 'life'. It was a test to determine those who are observant; those who cared about the world around them.
(All four of us were at separate floors. The typist only did the three-key press in front of them.)
Holding 'shift' and pressing 'home' brought the text cursor to the end of the sentence instead, at the same time highlighting the entire sentence. There were three more words after 'life'; all three were white in color, indistinguishable from the document background unless highlighted. The full sentence read 'life is so insignificant'.
(Holding the 'down' key while holding 'shift' will highlight this entire passage, not just one sentence.)
Below the sentence were three empty pages, bringing a total of four pages included in the document. However, upon highlighting the entire document, the police noticed that the everything after the 'life is so insignificant' line contained this entire passage, the very passage that you are reading now, typed in white. This passage was typed out before I entered the library. My motives are simple, really.
(Two years ago, the foreign man was my husband; the drunk man was my rapist.)
Life is so insignificant if you are not curious. Look around you, highlight everything from the start to the end; you will see details; the tiniest, strangest details.
(The typist was a baby. He was listening to his mother's voice through his earphones.)
(I'm his mother.)

(Who's the father?)