Feel myself become engulfed by it, and let
It's haunting scream at me.
Besides bruised ears I have only
Indifference for the actions that make up this daily
Facade. Useless
Are all these things... These things
I constantly find myself surrounded by. I'm lying
Through a dry mouth with sore lips, having been
Chapped to a torn up-bleeding-choking mess.
Nothing new or reasonable will come from this.
My body
Aches as though it were swallowed whole by the
Monster that is my reluctant reality; it's stale and
Putrid acids consuming me
From my organs to rotting flesh.
There is no grace, or hesitance about it.
Time rattles about my skull like a loose concept
Released to scatter across the ability to fathom.
It all holds me captive and yet I wander about
In a sort of dizzy-frenzy, obscured by confusion.
I dwell upon freedom, eager to escape the
Strangling hold of darkness, which has
Seemed impossible to surpass.
The world is a very big, very uncertain place that
I'm endlessly finding myself lost in.
I think of how there are so many, yet no
Real ways out.
So here I am... And none of it makes any sense.
The rigid strangeness is something so terribly familiar, and I
Only want to forget existence itself.
Who could predict such a forecast?
One with it's trembling skies shivering with fear,
And winds yearning to escape all the
Pressure in the atmosphere.
Endless agony penetrates my weakened chest, and
All of life clings to it's edges by
Frail fingertips alone.
Yet the skin is wearing thin, and beneath
Blood turns black and sour,
Aching with each year of misery.
This was my fate to experience.
*This is my punishment.

There was an old woman,
Who lived in a shoe;
She ate peas with cumin,
And smelled like shampoo.
She listened to Poison,
And had 7 cats;
She ate berries of boison,
And did acrobats.
She worked at a ***** house,
Made dolls on the side;
She hated to work out,
But loved ham-fried rice.
She had crusty socks,
That she'd hide inside books.
She had hide-a-key rocks,
And rusty fish hooks.
Her only collection
Were lamps with no shades;
Her only rejection
Were moles with no names.
All she ever said
Was the great "cellar door."
And now that she's dead,
The shoe lady's no more.
"what an odd woman,"
I said with a poke.
"she's surely a strange one.
I smoke too much dope."