Doubtful of Self, of Realness

Fortified by others' knowing, or preferably- admiration

Like being constructed out of sets of other peoples' eyes

Like being made real by propagating in more minds, many more minds, specific minds. In countless beating and virtual hearts, Likes, thumbs up

Not wanting to be forgotten, while alive, while dead

Taxed by maintenance and constant imminent collapse

Identity is a social construct

Awareness is not

The hubris of Man, to think we matter,
that our acts or life have any worth
I proclaim it rotten like so much mirth
The poor get poorer, the rats grow fatter
so spread not your lies, for I know better
The Void left our values a still-birth
We're cells further growing this cancer's girth
climbing higher on a failing ladder

Thus let us burn, we don't deserve a knife
let roam the terrors I dream of nightly,
open Pandora's box now, loosen its clasp
Let the End come now, there's no after-life
it'd change nothing, most just stare on blankly
And talk not of Love, it's out of my grasp

In restful sleep I've wandered to a land far and beyond,
Where banes, which, present, ******* me, have left me - far and gone.
Where havoc and the woes of life drift off to nullity,
And the breaths I took, for once, for once, came in tranquility.

For, gone were my anxieties, and absent were all tragedies,
Rubs of which make living a great bane on my reality.
                                                        ­...
But, by morn's time, the waking from the dream blighted the peace I'd found.
Worries and pernicious troubles, soon flocked back: a pack of snarling hounds.
(From their mouths did drip my dreams, which had been tattered at the seams;
Left in a state of disrepair, of which did cause me to despair -
For nothing else I did much care, but had much longing for those dreams
Which were now gone, ripped at the seams)
                                                       ...
Alack! what is this life to those who've cast their eyes on better things which lay,
Beyond the fringe of this existence, a land which living keeps at bay?

'Tis but a walk of sullen gloom, of which feels much like hellish doom
Though trying, never to break through, until you're sleeping in your tomb,
Where all the learning, of the wise, are shut into your pallid eyes,

Where all the learning, of the wise, are locked behind your pallid eyes.

Three syllables should roll easy,
yet sear acidic the tongue,
refusing formation
of empty expression.

The sun shines no brighter
than the struggling bedside light,
and rivers flow no fresher
than saliva leaked in sleep.

The malodour of rank roses
drifts from every kitchen,
where flies **** on dishes
of all the dinners not savoured.

Inside we search for desire; in drains,
under beds, between stale sheets. 
The arid well resists fornication
as we ***** for absent frisson,

the floral miasma lingering,
as if to scoff.

may these words ignite shame in your throat
so you can feel the red hot,
of rage and disillusionment

may these words,
welt your skin,
like apathetic whipping
and bruise your pride
with uncontrollable whimpers

may these words flay and pierce your skin,
like unforgiving shrapnel,
staining your lovely supple skin,
with the most beautiful crimson dye

and feel the loss,
of faith,
of purpose,
of love

may these words set fire to your soul
and feel the agony I know so well,
because lord knows,
you never had mercy on me