96 months

I have 96 months 
96, before IT comes. 
You know, IT, that thing, IT 
a gaping, tearing, pulling, pushing… IT 
I have just 96 months, 
the knifes so elegantly placed, so perfectly molded, holding so much promise. 
All that which leaves; a gaping, tearing, pulling, pushing… IT 
I scream at the cold beauty 
I laugh at the feeling… something other than failure. 
I have just 96 months 
96; the year the voices come, so loud so loud 
The year the colors dull 
The feelings numb. 
“Why can't you be more like… IT” 
IT, you know that thing that's always perfect, always better
IT the most crushing realization that you will never be good enough.
you a shadow to IT. 
The shadow, always behind IT. 
“Why can't you be better, why can't you be more like… IT” 
The spotlight is absorbed, taken over, outcasting all those who aren't… IT! 
The cold pleasure draws warmth, feeling… 
you find pleasure in feeling, something other than… FAILURE! 
I have just 96 months before the screams of those
The shouts of hatred that make even silence loud. 
So dark, yet so loud, screams, shrieks, a ghastly need for something… something.
IT, that thing that is always better than you. 
you a shadow to IT.
“Why can't I be more like…
Am I dead yet!”

This poem is about: 
Me

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