Pressure of Despair

There's a pressure in my lower stomach,

as sickness of aching and swelling,

A wish for something,

An errant whim against reality,


It is cold under the ocean,

in the darkness of my mind,

Coiled in a corner,

the snake of Leviathan


Memories are vines,

digging and choking,

killing Newton's apple tree,


The rosy flesh turns green,

A poison taste of bitter blood,


Cloaked and disparaged,

I hide in the forest outside my village,

Crying in the night to howls of wind,

I wish for no one to find me,

locked away in a hole of ash,

burned in my diary,

words only echoed in shapeless nothing,

I cast my soul to the void

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