I find it is like a sucker punch that is whispering a quick jab to the jawbone. Relentless, such as twisting my lip between my teeth; I do not stop until I feel dread and drink the iron flavor like wine. Sipping the pain as one would pleasure, I feel it spread all through my bones, like a droplet of a foreign liquid in purified water, expanding throughout and soothing my bitter resentment. My pearly whites plucking at a small fiber of flesh until it snaps releasing the acrid, maroon escape from my worse enemy but only for the very split-second of apathy found for every moment my heart flutters for no cause, every nagging hour that my affection stands without application and every instant that I realize I am still seeking.
All I have found is a goddess that does not exist, a muse for a deceased artist, a harlot for saint and clown for my penance. They whisper a serenade from a fictitious place leading even the most willed to doom such as a siren calling through the night and turning the most chivalrous men to boys and then, with self-righteous haste, asking why there are no more heroes? Why are there no more knights with their shining armor? It would be so easy to drift toward the dull warmth of lust.
It’s a curse spattered on by some vindictive virago with a sloppy sense of humor. I’ll find my cure as I cease to acknowledge the presence of my syndrome. Yet, like a prisoner chained to a tiny cell hungers for freedom, I will forever conceal my agony from reality. I will forever feel like an immortal begging for death. I find it better to embrace the solitude, to slowly sink to the abyss of loneliness than to set flight on a ludacris draft of compromise.
Your sorrow smiles like a breeding ground for disease. You all spiral down the pit of your own masochistic performance. Yet, you then parade around your self pity like a final act of a play, waiting for the audience to applaud your tragic downfall that is haphazardly showcased for the world to view. Burn your crops! Starve through the winter of your ill-fated daydreams, your ridiculous fantasies brought on with the treachery of the heart. Don’t fret for there is no worry until the soil becomes tainted and the seed infertile.
However, in spite of my desolation, I clench onto my convictions. Against my instincts, I hold fast, steady and determined with my resolve to lift myself and stand with the stoic aptitude of a stolen vow. Like eternity, my personal purgatory, I am stuck pursuing a fickle figment of an image constructed with intentions of a child’s purity, painted on a faultless canvas with a brush of temperance found in a dim-lit, back room of a fairytale.
All I have found is a goddess that does not exist, a muse for a deceased artist, a harlot for saint and clown for my penance. They whisper a serenade from a fictitious place leading even the most willed to doom such as a siren calling through the night and turning the most chivalrous men to boys and then, with self-righteous haste, asking why there are no more heroes? Why are there no more knights with their shining armor? It would be so easy to drift toward the dull warmth of lust.
It’s a curse spattered on by some vindictive virago with a sloppy sense of humor. I’ll find my cure as I cease to acknowledge the presence of my syndrome. Yet, like a prisoner chained to a tiny cell hungers for freedom, I will forever conceal my agony from reality. I will forever feel like an immortal begging for death. I find it better to embrace the solitude, to slowly sink to the abyss of loneliness than to set flight on a ludacris draft of compromise.
Your sorrow smiles like a breeding ground for disease. You all spiral down the pit of your own masochistic performance. Yet, you then parade around your self pity like a final act of a play, waiting for the audience to applaud your tragic downfall that is haphazardly showcased for the world to view. Burn your crops! Starve through the winter of your ill-fated daydreams, your ridiculous fantasies brought on with the treachery of the heart. Don’t fret for there is no worry until the soil becomes tainted and the seed infertile.
However, in spite of my desolation, I clench onto my convictions. Against my instincts, I hold fast, steady and determined with my resolve to lift myself and stand with the stoic aptitude of a stolen vow. Like eternity, my personal purgatory, I am stuck pursuing a fickle figment of an image constructed with intentions of a child’s purity, painted on a faultless canvas with a brush of temperance found in a dim-lit, back room of a fairytale.
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