the sticky tendrils of sadness
wind their way into my bone marrow
and make themselves at home
every conscious second
sears my will to live
burns my unalive flesh
leaving a charred mass of dust
in its wake
my eyes are near-empty
the tear glands exhausted
my misanthropy polished on my heartbreak
how pathetic people are
we surround ourselves in the hope that it'll be okay
but my exhausted soul wishes to say:
it isn't worth the effort
it isn't worth the fleeting joy
all I want is my peace
my forever peace
my unending peace
the lack of consciousness.