In the bliss of a given chance,
there are heartbeats in a trembling rhythm.
i ask God why he gave me these hands
when i can't even help myself with them.
A six-foot soul, rotting, wrapped in a tarp,
is being smoked, attempting to preserve it,
to sounds of shamans playing their mouth harps.
I
A rusty nail - a ray of the dawning sun,
is hammered into my back, for i'm a *******
kept indoors, as of now pondering on
some smart s**t that was once written by Sartre.
Connecting with my blood in an ill bond,
the duff concoction causing vigil and delusion,
would pull my tears from deep within my bones
to push them out in a sickening extrusion;
It made my stomach an acquintance of my lips,
It filled my throat and mouth with sore blisters,
as if i was a poor child that lisps,
exhibiting his skill in saying tongue twisters.
II
Woven into the crumb of my mind,
putrid spores of diseases untreated.
If i haven't left my past behind,
than my future is present repeated.
In the wetlands of the flat that i live in
there's a garden in a bottle of Jäger,
and a vine hanging down from a ceiling
by a table with an unopened letter.
III
The one who knows that what a tear holds,
will know that death is but a crude satire.
The one who built a shrine to suffering with words
will never die and always be admired.
The snippet started tranding so here is the full poem, I hope it's not underwhelming
