Monday, March 25, 2013

waste

There never was another reason except that there was a road. There was never any path other than the one downhill. The years went by, the rest went nowhere. Debt and loss and the contempt of everyone around. Madness and tears and all the voices joined, the dismal sound of your own breath another noise needing snuffing.

The confusion makes the fury, and the fury tells the story. Here come the list of wrongs endure, the names of each double crosser. It is even true sometimes, which only adds to every fire, the sadness which you're made from the fuel and the spark. The mind is stuck in litany, unable to refrain from repetition and refrain. Once you think about, it seems silly that you stayed around so long.

You are bruised and covered in cuts and scrapes. Another absurd labor done for rejection, another beating taken to make this case for oblivion. You are old enough to know that you are the reason you won't get better. The sickness just grows until it is all you are, sickness peeping out from the abattoir of your wasted skull. In the end all you are owed is the death you deserve. Sometimes all that is left is to settle up and punch out.

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