Twisted tourniquets choke our hearts, our blood gone chill;
the gothic and the dead are the only things that thrill
a mind drowsily trapped in demonic despair.

Like pumpkins uncarved, our vampire souls are incognito
in the slums of Pluto. We strive to be individuals isolate,
emancipated from the orcish throngs of ennui,

to be uplifted into the icy gales gyves liberating,
but we slip downward into endless, spiked spirals,
shoved down the hellish throat of depression traitorously

by the ignoramus jail keepers we are dependent upon.
We're engulfed by waters Acheron mimicking; our woe
drowns in a miasma of squandered time, ever downward we flow,

rending our distempered souls volatile, desperately committing acts
which the burlesque sheriffs of culture condemn,
spinning our sanity into eternal vanity, and nevermore equilibrium,

while our hearts wither in some sleepless love insomnia,
and suicide is the tranquilizer which sedates our sorrow. Hence daily
life mutates into a nightmarish coma which we are imprisoned in.

But that's all an excuse. Our families know we are just lazy.

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