I waltz around the corner, 

Hoping, but dreading, for something, 

someone, to lift me from this ground

as I reach the depths of the sun.

Everything seems so close yet so far,

but the closer you get from coming

so far, the more the ghost of dread

looms over you like a shadow. The darkness

that looms from the regrets you've

dreaded committing but did anyway

almost to a point where the guilt

possesses you as a demon would, 

causing you to sieze, writher, scream, 

and beg for it all to go away. But

the mind is a record player, willing

to torture you with an endless

loop of memories which no matter

how much you turn down, the worm in

your ear continues to gnaw at your

brain, mocking your pain, whispers the

wretched curse which you have invented

like a mastermind whose invention had

gone out of control to a point

where not even the inventor could

shut them off. The only ailment

to this illness is a prescribed pill

in the shape of a bullet, which

will mend the brain down, stunt it, and 

calm it down with the motherly 

arms of sweet death. Or perhaps

the sun will do the trick to cure

of this burden. Who knows, as grimly,

I waltz around the corner.