What catharsis is this that feels so plagiarized, I mistep, misquote, this thing you call hope. Do not mistake the mistakes made up at what I thought was the goddess's feet, it was only just a threshold to pass over.


    and you'll tell me that I was wrong an that living is dreaming but what is this teeming feeling of tranquility seamlessly seeming full to bursting like a symbolic version of fertility this cancelation of emotions rocking us through the motions of what people say is the end.


    I saw the church, I saw the altar, I didn't see the lie behind your eyes, as you faltered to say yes, it was then I climbed the steeple and rang the bell, outside it rang and the people saw, and in my fall I welcomed death.

A drastic blast of synaptic feedback pushing through I'll just hide it in this ***** knapsack, filled with stressors , triggers, and all my depressive rock tracks.


I'll lyricize my faults and sing them to you, and you'll be surprised at the lack of care as tears well up in your eyes, to hear all these thoughts, scenarios; this faculty of lies pulsing in my brain prying and supplying a fuselage of broken memories, and half truths whose roots brutishly dig deep.


  You want me to be yours to keep but I just lie and form the echos of my mind into words you'll understand an when this all comes out they'll say I was deep, but they misunderstand, I'm not deep, this black ichor that seeps deep and won't let me sleep, those thoughts that keep the dreams from forming beams of hope.


    so I just lay there, trying to find some semblance of hope, this trope they call a living nightmare this disease of such unease keeps calling, and I can't stop myself from answering

Beleaguered, beaten,downtrodden, and ridiculed, a lawless dystopian system, who says I need to imbibe all of this misery like an alcoholic who savors that last drop of misery
An act of depression, I just wanted to end this session without that pervasive effect, and failed.


The lesson here was not, is not, in that failure, but the lure of some inner peace, a cease to the wails of the demons who in their persistence infect my mind with graphic insinuations of insect like pestilence crawling over my body until I get their much needed fix.


They say the burn means it's working but I only feel them churning, yearning, scratching the back of my mind screaming more, and like the good little ***** I give.

   if only so i get my fix that sweet neurotic silence is an awful, awesome bliss, that no description could do justice, I sigh and revel there are no words for this.


Again and later forevermore they come and scream and wail and I their dutiful ***** awaken from the floor and reach for the nearest bottle of sweet sweet liqueur.
    
    or in my mind, behind the wall, that deadening silence that kills them all, if only for a little while, before again they whine and moan.


A pile of bodies is all I can envision, enveloped and writhing in some sick contortion, mouths agape and screaming, there is no flood of blood, just pain and denial and as I watch from the corner I taste the bile.
    
    how could i have made this thing, what was its purpose, to safeguard the wall or keep me trapped, I pour more liquid into their mouths but keep my focus rapt, how can I leave if they are here, where to go from this pit of fear.