Dear Grim Reaper, The world is nothing But a somnambulent dream, Humans are but heaps of dust - gyrating, in a state of terminal lucidity Bizzarly pompous and Brazenly hypocritical, we live a life of mistakes, accentuated by grief. Sorrow rules over our minds as we obey our puppeteers, not a moment of seclusion, not a flicker of reason. Haunted by the ghoul of acceptance we submit
A great beyond - unbeknownst lies smudged in grimace, in the middle of the abyss, a cosmic whisper --overheard
Having been referred to on multiple occasions as being “depressed”, I am offended. Every time. Having a chronically macabre state of mind and being drawn to a melancholy atmosphere and writing does not make one depressed. Or a psychopath. It does not mean a person is on a journey to being a serial killer or committing suicide. Some people, such as myself, just happen to find comfort in things deep and meaningful. While some comedy, joy, and love is to be revered and enjoyed more sparingly the sad, twisted, and horrid truths of the world can uphold a better sense of completion, joy, and love. This does not make one depressed or mentally ill but perhaps just more...... thoughtful.
She who lives in accordance to nature unfolding is an entity who governs with equity, Embracing the beauties of organic origins she preserves life's virtue, Holistically embodying the spirit of now she carries an impartial tranquility, Restoring balance towards fickle fabrications many are led to believe.