fatal symbiosis

Joyous times granted once for this crippled fool, who’s mind is so weary and fickle that even a room full of laughter leaves him wandering back to the self-made axe, to chop away again at his dying will to keep smiling. Even with good company, a hearty stomach and a warm side the old fool weeps at his misfortune of having to be a mortal, time-bound flesh mound. To what end will this pity tear at the man’s stomach. churn his inside until even the cherished of foods is bitter and dust, and the inner caverns of his mind are filled with blood-soaked scrawls of his lover’s name and a thousand wishes to his unalterable past?

You bring those cheerful emotions to the surface and embrace the warmth of humanity, of being apart of something larger than your own survival. Only to arise the next day with that pit in your gullet and tears welling at your eyes. Every absence is a loss of purpose, for what is living but to love and be loved? If not to be loved, then what is to be?

When those notice the sorrow that fermented onto your face, what say you? What say you when they cry against your body?

What say you, when they stand in vigil for you? The night you choose to be brave, you hope the paramedics weep at your lifeless body and cling to their children afterwards. The trapped and the trapper, you are the guard to your own prison, you old fool.

End this cycle already. By death or by rebirth, you must end this. For the sake of your world, the Gods have died long ago, it is only you now. You search for Gods, and lose yourself in their bones.

Brave-heart. The sunfucker.

I have no appreciate for this body, the wrong body.

When I’m alone, what do I do with my thoughts? How long until I’m too weak to search for a distraction and I will myself into some unconscious state where I don’t feel anything at all, I’d rather lose all feeling than sit in this miserable stillwater of waisted effort, I waste more effort in trying not to kill myself than being a decent body. 

This crown of thorns I willingly place on my head everyday, I live in this misery of thought because it's comforting as is the bodily lull of a chronic illness as is the soft decay of tissue. 

I choose not to get help because then I have more of a reason to live. I am in need of help but have no way of speaking of it. A cursed silence, a cursed flux of happiness and the pit of melancholy. So be it, old fool. Cry again. Cry a million times knowing no matter how many tears it is you who tears down the barrier to greatness. 

Get up.