deadrosesofveronica

[deadrosesofveronica]

Suffering from a visceral pain and torment, I can't hold my guts straight in my hands without trembling and forgetting myself. All I want to do is to push every ounce of my stomach out, yet, I remain stuck with my lungs exposed to the sun and acid flushed into my bones.

Wherever I go, the trail of vermin follows as they fall from my open wounds and each clogged vein in decomposition, reacts to my dying state. I should ask myself why and why and why repeatedly, but for what should I get answers? Everything is a spiral, spinning down the drain as eloquently as a babble. Thus far, my support could be extended thorns of a vineyard squeezing me tight so my tripes stay sucked in my intestine, but I am flesh and blood and guts and bones, dissolving in a psychotic echo of everything, all and none. I am viscera. I am visceral and raw, yet, masked and shy. But everything is laying me down on a rotten bed and violating my body at a tortuous pace, uncountable times. My brain has holes everywhere and every thought runs and crosses each other in blurs of iridescent colors I cannot see, because I am only human. Or am I not?

It's not over. It's not over. It's never over. And I am divided, fragmented. It just gets worse. Swallowing shards of glass which never reach my digestive system. Enzymes can only work against me, and the clock melts away behind my eyes as I rot. I'm left in a void and intense confusion. It's beyond my comprehension.

I have just too much to say. No words, though. No words.

No words.

[deadrosesofveronica]

I forgot my watermark, but I made this some time ago. This is me and yes, I do look like this in real life.

I hear them, I am them, I see everything and all and I know divinity is everywhere at once, and in all. Roots.

📡🖤

Nowhere in everywhere.

[deadrosesofveronica]

You may or may not feel disturbed by this.

Xingu.

A primeira eu fiz porque minha loucura tem trilha sonora. O grotesco e o nojento são sagrados aqui no esgoto. O cosmo eh o santíssimo. Zumbificada, a Robin ainda tá se decompondo aos poucos. Mas ela vai pro xingu, e dança comigo.

Second one is English, because I just wanted to. It's a zombie world. You know the virus.

Vivo entre a psicodelia (aguda) e o sombrio mundo da angústia, mas adoro DJs.

[deadrosesofveronica]

I fear I got almost scammed. Don't do this.

[deadrosesofveronica]

Blank paper.

So I got this paper to write on, but I didn't have a pen. Well, I thought I could find one, though I couldn't get up because my stomach was rumbling painfully and I was feeling sick. I felt dizzy when I tilted my head down to stare at the blankness of the paper. I was told to write something that could show others I am real too. I should sell myself for their own pleasures, after all, entertainment is a form of art, if capitalized. But I am small and wrecked as an ant being crushed by a rock. But too big as a train going off the trails. Brutal and crooked, such as a mouth full of words, a drawing made in ecstasy of tortuous emotions, no skill, just babbles and babbles and...I vomited. Blood streamed down on the blank paper, now full of red. A dirty blade came out, bloody. No eraser, or some cloth to clean it. A few tripes on top of the paper adorned it like a frame. I felt way better after vomiting and noticed that the blood wrote something on its own:

"I am viscera."

[deadrosesofveronica]

O fardo do zumbi, cadavérico corpo. Sisifus empurra uma pedra infinitamente, e a dor que o acomete é a mesma da morte, que existe em vida, e que existe no divino.

Mas nada se encaixa realmente, e nada começa ou termina, só é algo. Alguma coisa.

É alguma coisa.

Transl:

The burden of the zombie, cadaverous body. Sisifus pushes a stone endlessly, and the pain that affects him is the same as that of death, which exists in life, and which exists in the divine. But nothing really fits, and nothing begins or ends, it's just something. Something.

It is something.

Eu voltando depois de cinco séculos.

Nome da obra: Sob Existência.

Levei 6 horas pra fazer. Sim, tem muitos defeitos. Não, eu não ligo. Na verdade, eu acho que os defeitos eh o que deixam melhor, porque eh como eu apodreço, perpetuamente.

Transl: me coming back after 5 centuries.

Piece name: Under Existence.

Took me 6 hours to make. Yes, there's lots of flaws. No, I don't care. I actually think the flaws are what make it better, because it's how I rot, perpetually.

Eu faço parte da Paralisiadosono, por isso coloquei o crédito ali. Draga eh meu usuário do Kofi, onde publiquei essa obra inicialmente.

Reb em @deadrosesofveronica (que também sou eu) com um pequeno escrito.

[deadrosesofveronica]

Fiz isso aqui inspirado na @onosodaisilarap.

Essas são as duas versões originais/base (que ela fez)👇

V.1

V.2

🙏 gratidão demonia do sono

[deadrosesofveronica]

There are other versions of this one, but I'll just post this one specifically and I will not elaborate.

📡

[deadrosesofveronica]

The quality looks bad because I have to snap pictures of my ipad screen and I will keep doing it.

V.2↓

I keep forgetting to add my watermark 💔 it's fine.. .

[deadrosesofveronica]

Everything I create is like I'm shouting into the void.

[deadrosesofveronica]

I wake up expecting to die and I go to sleep expecting to live.

Then I can't wait for the rain to come and the thunderstorm to start.

[deadrosesofveronica]

Mal terminei de morrer e já vou ter que viver de novo.

[deadrosesofveronica]

When you stand before a mirror, do you view or see yourself?

Quando você está na frente do espelho, você se vê ou se enxerga?

[deadrosesofveronica]

I am not an artist, because I am not brave enough. And to be brave is to be shaken, to have your whole body stuttering with fear and your tongue wrapped in panic.

I am not wise, because I am stupid and ambitious. I am naive and insane.

I wish I could do art, but I just vomit and vomit and vomit and nothing will ever make sense, or evoke something within whoever witnesses it. I wish I could be wise enough to help, but I am proud and selfish. I am full of emptiness and chasing a loop of "Am I? Am I? Am I? Am I?"

Creativity, am I? Giant as an ant. Small as the Eiffel tower. To fight is to die and kill and bleed and I can't hold any weapon without my mind spinning and I get lost in contradiction. Change my mind. Change my mind and heart and whatever I am. Because I am a fragment of myself that keeps switching. Killswitch. I am never really here and I am never really there. Nowhere but between everything and nothing. What am I fighting for? And I realize I am exhausted.

I am not an artist and I can't be one. I am not weak enough. I am not brave enough. But I am ill enough to puke. I am not wise and I can't be. I am not simple enough. I am not humble enough. I am still too human in an alien's body. An alien in a human body.

I wish I could fit somewhere, if it weren't for the other me to refuse.

[deadrosesofveronica]

This is my drawing about ‡ about this is my about drawing this is my drawing about about this is drawing my this drawing is is

‡‡

I dream.

[deadrosesofveronica]

Weird stranger.

To connect to my sewage installations🪳🛸:

Wattpad (native language system) 👁️:

My AO3🛸 (English system):

https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coimetromania

An offering could be handy🦷here is the international drain where you can throw some coins:

Thank you.

🪳👁️✨🛸🦷