To die in my own arms.
To experience rapture in my world
encompasses a field of hindrance.
Undoubtably failing,
to seek those who comfort me in a world of nonfulfillment.
A confined receptacle of positive emotions
struggling to be kept shut tight,
as I meander the streets of the bold and proper.

Unconventional workings of the mind projected by waves of sound ******,
causes discomfort to those who have listened in company of me.
Notability has been afar,
since I had last possessed it so greatly.
I am now the last of what to be known,
as the person I once was to be.

Lust awaits behind a door,
a door that has weakened with seniority.
Love appears to be concealed in fear.
Rejection is relative to love's own emotion.
Lust is what terminates the opportunity of love,
when oral phrasing is miscalculated from it's true meaning.

Never have I been so doltish,
and scatterbrained I seem to be.
Alone I am It seems to me.
Will solitude become my everlasting acquaintance?
It's been surely devoted for quite some time,
although I'd prefer to meet it's demise.

Nevermore I seek to idolize,
such a classification that rebuffs me.
I'll keep to me and one day I shall see,
It is but only me,
who has been faithful to fidelity.
Failure to remain in solidarity any longer,
with thoughts I blindly accept.

Denial will get myself nowhere,
but a premature casket that aimed to be fulfilled by an obsolete version of me.
I have yet to find such love again.
Nostalgia appears to be such a unique function of the memory.

Yet nostalgia for me,
causes misery when reminding me of what I once had, and will forever fail to achieve again.
Two malignant relatives haunt me as I attempt to dream of peace and tranquility.
Malicious enemies such as depression and loneliness will forever cease my ability to dream.

Opposing the peacefulness they provide the nightmare.
But no nightmare is as gruesome or horrific as the constant reminder that,
I am alone,
And I will now know what it's like,
To Die in My Own Arms.