Purgatorial

Thick with lies I am doused in solitude - a change of events I carry from past to future. Only the bruised mirror of existentialism can open my eyes to a sad truth of careless, reckless, intentional hesitancy. I write with a feeling of morose calm - and force nonsensical vowels on the world as a bittersweet therapy for time to pass. This is a fogged monotony that is inescapable - a promise of mediocre artistry - a love of all things on borrowed time. Sober is well hidden masochism and only we could endure the blood of a daily psychic ache. I climb these steps with urgency, to retrain my own abusive fists, to keep me outside of myself.

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741