When did your persecution become my concern?
A tremble in stillness is the severity of my treachery. Has sin ever found a face it does not love? A steady drive down the old laceration boulevard, a few waves and helloes to the old cells that hang on in crusty anticipation…for what, I do not know. My steady streams of tobacco pushing my stomach to new depths of sourness but addictions always have the final word.
I am crushed beneath an unseen weight, some heroic force of guilt and shame which somehow swallows the light in the room. Not that I bother with lights anymore, just some colorless music to expel the life that threatens to consume. I become a contortion, a grimace that seeks out a clear reason for this internal martyrdom. The word, help, screams out of the lips of the past but I seldom remember the meaning of that sound.
The pale blue paint of the room peels of into dried flakes of the smiles that used to live here. The sickness is never a long time in coming, as soon as the last face recoils from the eyes the dread pours down…and, “this is my life” I say. My obsessions come out for their grand spectacle of haunting. I fail every test of restraint, for weakness is my only clear definition. Mercy lies inside of giving in. while curled up in my own arms I create brilliant devices out of the dying coals of hope. I am always lost in tomorrow because I can never bare today.
“It’s the chemicals the body doesn’t produce…it’s not your fault…these will help.” A life of new addictions, popping emotional antibiotics only to become a zombie locked in a dull stasis, too detached from feeling to see any purpose to it at all. My nature shall never be distortion.
In left over rants I yell, “Fuck God and fuck all!” No one is clever in a tantrum. Moments later I gush prayers and repentance for mistakes not yet made…but I have lived long enough to know. In some circles pain is a luxury, an easily tapped idea for profit. In my circle it disproves the idea of opulence, though I have no ties to integrity.
It has become clear that I am a collection of echoes, a crumbling mountain of words. While locked into this concoction of despair and self loathing the visceral quality of life becomes overwhelming. Internal hallucinations are as best as I can put it to words. I feel over drawn and therefore a poor piece of work indeed. I have grown to be a jumble of self serving fantasy that is merely confused by the restrictive nature of reality. It is a dangerous way to live, thinking only of how I may die. Spoiled and under developed…
Rotting away in a homey confine, scratching out a letter that says little but is grand in its sincere finality.