Different sores have different salves.
Mushrooms bloom in the fall.

The blind lead the deaf
and the deaf guide the blind.

Things create themselves.
Words are cheap.

My heart, it beats so quietly.
Irregular at times.
Sometimes it seems to skip beats.

A passion burns inside of me,
but I'm unsure what for.
I look for purpose in my heart.
I strain to hear it's muddied thumps
through thickened, blackened blood.

An engine drives me straight ahead,
but knows no way to stop.
For fuel it burns what it can find
it just leaves ash and smoke behind
but in pursuit of what?

I live, I take, I want, I need.
My heart is vanity and greed
but stopping it's pulse means death.

I lie inside a purgatory of overpowering apathy, drawing the will from within me with each attempt to relocate my being, such that I cannot achieve the thing that I desire. To exhume from within myself this endlessly building and foul nectar. It would be a welcome release, but it seems as if this release is not my fate. For my body, and perhaps some dark, hidden part of my mind, have seen it fit to betray me in this hour. My limbs refuse to obey my will, and my anguish grows with each passing second, yet still I am left powerless against my own lack of will.

That is to say.

I have to ***, but I'm too lazy to get up.

Neon Bones 'twixt Electric Veins.
Surface Cracking
Steaks of Exhilaration in Darkness
Welling Tremors
Crackling Black Desert
Cold and Dry
Locked Away

I'm an arsonist in recovery.
When the rocks freeze over,
I slip and fall.
I burn bridges just to keep them warm.

She stands slouching, foreboding,
   A guide past the grave.
Death is wistful, a lady.
   An agent of change.
She's here watching, and waiting,
   A friend on dark days.