lypophrenia

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   there's a void, deep inside my heart. something, or someone has placed a seed in the darkness. From? I don't know where.
  it's a seed of enigma, and as it takes its saturnine root, it takes from me, things whelved deep inside. My peace is absorbed, replaced with grey gloom. 
  the roots deepen, causing aches in my chest. it’s an isolating pain, no one else will notice. Like I’m the only one who hears its unharmonious melody, it’s entering my brain, and tearing it apart. 
   Its faint tune starts to whisper thoughts into my ears, and makes me question myself. Who am I? What is the point? What is real? Who is real? 
   the seed feeds on my confusion and melancholy. I become filled with ennui, only finding comfort in grey, muted mornings and dark rain. The moon becomes my sun, unreliable, always switching its pale faces. It’s dim light brings comfort to my eyes, as it’s not bright enough to burn away the shadows, and reveal what they’re hiding. The sun sees all, but only the moon will understand. For the moon goes through phases to, just like we do. 
   In the pitch black does this seed bloom, into an orphic flower of melancholia. I want reach my hands inside of me, and part my ribs as if I’m a fruit to be opened. You’ll see my bones covered in its thorny vines, and my organs decayed from the flowers everlasting hunger. will blood spill, I don’t think so. For the flower is a deep shade of crimson, blending with pulses of my heart. 
   the flower, deep inside the void of my heart, has filled it completely, while leaving me emptier. A strange paradox it is. The flower will never wilt, until it completely and utterly corrupts me, and will only die with me. It spreads its filthy pollen, disgusting those around me. It attracts only those who want take advantage of the selcouth flower, to help it blossom further inside me. 
   but I’ll never do anything to take out this flower, because flowers are admired, and beautiful. If I take it out, what’s left, but the void again?