I replaced my old tech blog with a bad poem I wrote when I was 18. Because I felt like it.

Anoia Demon

Words flung to a void
Suffer for their usage
I know not of feelings
I have only words

Panic ebbed away
An enigma for my mind
I see blades cutting flesh
That never lived to die

Pain tugs and screams
In deep recess of memory
Consciousness bewilders
I cannot see my eyes

There is ancient danger
In this filth and muck river
Immortal things that breed
And dream and sweat and breathe

Pure and lonely revulsion
Sings and lures my ears
Pure and lonely revulsion
Mouths and swallows

Unreal tears that I
Have not and feel not
Phantom death that
Walks without of a self

Here drop embers of youth
And pictures of health
That wither into themselves
Implode and scatter

There is ancient lust
In this filth and muck river
Immortal things that dream
And ache and burn and scream

If I could know this thing
That hides at my periphery
Perhaps I could now kill it
Before it can kill me

If I could but feel pain
Exquisite and beautiful
Raw and enchanting
Or real and existent

Instead of this unreal
Pain that reeks of nothing
Perhaps I could accept
That it no longer exists

There is ancient filth
In this vile muck and river
Immortal things that feed
Divide infect succeed

This world is pure nostalgia
And slowly will recede
The real is fake nostalgia
And that itself has ceased

This pain is pure life
And quickly will recede
While yet my deeds will thwart me
These immortal things still breed

There is ancient contradition
In this omnipresent river
For how does time exist
While immortal things still breed?