a troubled little wisp of waxy death punches from my lips (is it the exhaust from many thriving microorganisms ?) there it is a clearly visible tiny cloud formation (is this an indication?... the breaking down my over ripened form ?) married also is its appearance in the bathroom mirror (confirmation that it is no illusion)
i was quite casual about the event (thank you) but not enough to stop me noting it here ; call it 'the death weather report' it shall be journaled further i already feel observed as though by some bored student mortician
My thoughts They can get scary It's threats, more often than not, not empty It's hard to convey what they say They whisper a fray of cliche self hate with 41 years to work it's way to this level of decay It's all consuming, engulfing then removing positivity 'til it's so scarce I'm left to pretend mostly A sparse landscape of depravity naturally Clear cut to make way for the fear factory The soul fractures, now solely fear so to ward off lonely I let it stay Not knowing how to play Leaves me in the dark on what's at play
My thoughts They aren't worth a penny My two cents is free I'd pay you to take them all completely Is there a chance it gets messy? Abso-freakin-lutely But oh what a hero you could be Imagine it up on a marquee, shining brightly "Some dumb fuuck, a heros story" (A family movie) I'll be the monkey in the middle, come meet me Come greet me and see purgatory, my state of temporary suffering and predetermined misery What I'm forced to portray is only done cause I must obey or pay some ******* up penalty Knowing I am the game and the prey, feeding a self-righteous gluttony How much more do you want from me? How much more must I contort for thee?
I feel like I'm withering away in decay as the world slowly crumbles around me I'm not the only one Others are fading too Some faster some slower It's not a race against each other but against time itself How much time do I have left to be complete I've never been the whole puzzle just random bits and pieces What kind of vision could I create in this chaos A collage of eternal suffering Or an epiphany of everlasting utopia
we fall, we run, we chase, we hide make plans and make believes we force our roots to ignore the cycles of decay we fill our bodies with rush and dismay we love and we are ready to die all the symbolic deaths that ignore the traffic lights just to just to just to just to avoid the unbearable pain of being alive
Breath comes Slow and Harsh Through a filter of Tar and age Comes faster, unbidden unbound un invited I stood, days of old and told myself I was. done. Breathing, tar. I guess Tar, still holds an ember In, my, chest.