The void, the incubuses, the whirlwind which I call mother. If I take my self out of the equation, then it will be better for others.

The point is sprawling and spiralling out of control. To hit the road, only to carve as man desires, for we are human and just all we are to humanity.

So why carry on, in the depth of despair and unhappiness. Nothing is ever fixed or settled, why love oneself or others,
it only leaves us all with despair, angst and pain.
The irony of tragedy, to live a life,
It is just pain,
No window of light of life,
Just death surrounded by time.
Time to ponder,
Time to become weak,
Time to lose oneself,
To only ever be a tragedy.