By the artist,
I have done wrong,
but if she can begin this,
then I can be strong.

Are you happy it's over?
I'm happy it's begun,
I'm unable to show her,
how beautiful life's become.

I'd die to show you,
the things I've hewn

How do you like me now?
Now that we've reached the end of suffering,
the end of angst and self-loathing?
How do you like me now?
Now that I've broken through the ceiling,
the ceiling you painstakingly built,
the one I watched you nail into the beams,
***** into the posts,
and board with plywood,
as my red puffy eyes stared in silence?
How do you like me now?
Now that I blare my music through the hallway?
Now that I can tell you what I write?
Now that I smile back at you while you yell,
while you grimace and shriek at my defenses?
How,
How do you like me, now?
I've lost without loving,
and I've loved without losing,
accomplished without trying,
trying without accomplishing,
I've betrayed time,
I've backed our enemies,
betrayed our allies,
Why haven't you let go yet?
I'm happy,
I'm smiling,
I've even began to exercise again.
Impossible,
or impassible?
I guess you'll always be here,
teeth sunken into my limbs,
claws tearing my notebooks apart,
But I've learned the right formula,
and this substance is more than tangible.
It's a cure.
And I'm ready to release it,
for a price.

Without this mountain,
I cannot climb,
I cannot reach this peak,
and claim it as mine,
I cannot conquer its hanging ledge,
it's blistering wind,
I can only soften,
and degenerate into sin,
into a bag of sensory organs,
without purpose other than to intake,
to sit and exist,
without motion or thought,
but with this mountain,
I climb towards realization,
the mountain is here because I want it to be,
the mountain exists in dual properties,
in mind and body,
and without it,
without this conflict,
without this drive,
I am nothing,
the husk,
buried in sand in a flat desert,
remaining on level ground,
stuck,
wasting,
dead.

Investment in chronology,
bringing impending doom,
with the decay of your biology,
wasting away in your room.

The seconds are hours,
the hours are weeks,
in building your towers,
your brain cells grow weak.

Ticking of hands,
naught but an illusion,
only beginnings and ends,
decide death and contusions.

Do not live for the present,
do not live for the past,
the future resent,
only trust in the flask.

This day that recurs,
is it all in my head,
or an overture,
the real life before dead?

What is a life,
in ruptured peace,
just fodder for pens,
expended on sheets.

Will it ever be,
the way it was in my head,
those things that I've seen,
lying awake in my bed?

I cannot dwell on what I think,
There is no point to this fight,
I'll just allocate ink,
and try to live how I write.

The automaton is perfect,
solid exoskeleton,
white as snow,
no creases,
no marks on its hull,
belying wear.
It moves the same way every day,
venturing only within its comfort zone,
defined by experience,
implanted by the creators.
There are many more like him,
discernible only by serials,
and the tasks they complete,
no complaint,
no thought,
only direction.
They think him impervious,
but his shell is weak,
a wondrous lie,
inside the shell is rotten and rusted,
filthy with grease and grime,
and oil,
covering frayed tendons of wires,
but the connections are slowly failing,
and the sparks inside consume him,
and only time can tell if it will enlighten him,
or destroy him.