Critical Mass

Broken skin and broken promises.

The haze over my brain has yet to subside.

Each new beginning carries a more horrid truth.

Can I face this world again?

I must.

I don't like it.

But I can't sit still.

I won't just decay.

The people closest to me are the ones sometimes it seems who understand me least.

Am I such a great mystery?

Some forbidden puzzle dreamed up on a horror novelist's page?

To open my heart and mind.

Would you be opening the floodgates of hell?

Would a tidal wave of pitch and misery flow into this place?

If only I was a real human being?

If I could be ~normal~ would I want to be?

Fool.
Never join them.
They are the enemy.

If I prick myself.

I don't bleed.

My heart stopped pumping.

My veins dried up and rotted away a long time ago.

Flaking dead skin flipping off this hull as the breeze makes my noose sway.

The branch of the petrified willow tree can sustain my weight but not the weight of my soul sold as a burden and never longed for as the shining jewel it might have been.

If not for this.

This propensity for atrocity mocking my existence like the impulse.

To do bad things.

My eyes like black empty sockets as I attempt to embrace the abyss only to realize that the piercing gut wrenching shrieks busting my eardrums wide open as I clutch at slimy prison walls of a nightmare in my own existence is in all actuality just my stupid alarm clock.

Great asshole, you’re late for work. 

 




©2005-2007 ~MorbidMac