How many levels of hell are there?

Dante is fucking wrong

I have come to deadened space

Alive only with some kind of empty, disgusting, torturous insanity

A white void of horror

There is no God here

There is no God

I beg to be killed but there is no one to do it

And no instruments for my own use in this white sterile room

So I will starve to death on this bitter, pointless existence

And wake back up in this same room

If only I could be in Hell’s 9th level

This level has no number

 

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Mad

joker

The Murderer runs wild again

Screaming madly, Insanities

Knife gripped so tight it’s glued to his hands

Thinking over and over,

What can I stab? 

Tw-Twitching for a fix

Sub blood, he demands, for that methadone drip

Drip…drip…

But the drip ain’t gonna cut it so he rips open the bag

Sucks down the Need but there’s more Need to be had…

That’s how it goes when Something’s gone mad

He swallowed too much Rage one day

Now It pours through His gaze

Eyes drinking in pain

Of those he ordains

By slicing and cutting

By his murderous rage

Victims all asking how he got this way

In humble attempts to find his humanity

In desperate pleas to let them go free

But He’s shaking and starving

Can’t hear a damn word they say

Too possessed by the bliss of watching them

Drain

And by the Power that lights up his black-blooded veins

The instruments he wields

Inflicting such pain

Evil is winning, friends

But go ahead — look away

Avoidance is easier than staring this Thing in It’s face

Because that’s what It is – There is no “He” in this man

He kills for the thrill of it

He kills ‘cuz he can

No reason, no feeling

He’s just fucking

Mad