The stale stench of criticism and loathing hangs in the air.
My thoughts are replaced with the cacophonous crackling
Of plastic wrappings.
I think my soul left weeks ago.
My body is run-down and deprived of the necessary fuel to charge it.
The minuscule amount of hope still clinging desperately to life
Is the hope that maybe tonight,
I can get a few hours of blissful unconsciousness;
The hope that the smooth, cool hand of that sweet, sweet death
Will soon calm my aching essentia.