Some of my makeup looks should you feel it necessary to use reference.

But do not steal these looks.

That would make me just as angry as copying my poetry.

and my skin crawls with burning rage when people copy my poetry. Amaranthe Jinx and Black Paradox, I’m looking at you. I hate you both more than I hate running out of eyeliner.

I’m not really sure what you’re on about, Anon. I’m a nocturnal creature, I don’t do anything during the day. 

I can’t believe you want makeup tips. It’s not makeup, it’s a visual metaphor for my inner darkness. Anyway, take your eyeliner. Mine’s dark black (no, not regular black; there’s a distinct difference.) Put it on thick; it’s a protective barrier against sunlight and worse: happy people.

But that’s not nearly dark enough. If you want to display your inner turmoil properly you need eye shadow. You also need more eyeliner to paint your sorrow across your face. You want to look sad — and not “I-spilled-white-paint-on-my-black-skinny-jeans” sad. We’re talking downright miserable.

It could use some downward, tear-like streaks but this ask isn’t worth my time to create perfection for you; I have poetry to write. Anyway, the next step is lipstick because you can’t look dead with pink lips - who wants to be alive anyway?

Put that shit on. Use your eyeliner to make designs. It’s best if you look like you’re drooling something poisonous. Avoid anything that could make you look like you’re smiling. You’re too dead inside to smile.

Also, none of this matters if you don’t take candlelit photos while crying alone over a book of poetry. All those emotions seething inside the festering wound that is your heart create the best makeup. Remember, you only look as miserable as you feel.

Alone, shrouded by darkness,
the misery comes in waves
like the ebb and flow
of the midnight ocean.
There comes a rise and fall
in time with the lunar pull,
a variance in intensity
in this rising tide of emotion.
Deep withing me,
spectral whispers call out.
Endlessly, endlessly they cry,
as if they were vampires still out at dawn.
My talent is too deep, too vast;
far too grand to be cheapened by this
and yet here I find myself all torn up,
writing a poem for this alliterating anon.

I very nearly worship that man.

Aside from Manson, my favorites include Cradle of Filth, HIM, the Murderdolls, and The 69 Eyes. I listen to basically anything that is dark enough to match the shriveled, black, corpse-like shell that was my heart.

Are you insinuating that I should be something else? Sadness is one of the few emotions that I actually have. You wouldn’t understand the deep, debilitating misery that I suffer through on a daily basis, anyway.

No, not really. They’re more like partners in misery, if anything.

Your spelling is atrocious.

Hell-come to my blog.

Let’s get this misery started.

I’m sure you’re all dying to ask me things.

askthewrongthingandyouwill