I cannot end the illusion
Because the reality scares me more than I care to admit.
Fighting anger and this drifting existence,
It seems easier than being happy.
Stewing in week old clothes and eating liquorice for breakfast,
because I just don’t care anymore.
The dog sprawled beside me, sad brown eyes begging for at least a smile…
I don’t know if it’s him or me in more dire need of bathing,
And the truth is, it stopped mattering the second the thought began.
I have responsibilities,
The automaton in me allots empty minutes to these,
Leaving pained questions and lonely tears that shred even deeper into my core.
I can’t wake up and I can’t even sleep…
I’ve forgotten how to climb out from this.
Can someone tells me where you are when you sink past rock bottom?
A moment of perfect synchronicity imbues one with perfectly pure lust,
What may pass as a moment of absolute clarity is merely insanity in guise.
Nothing is more true or certain than “if it seems too good to be true, than it probably is.”
And so I place myself confidently in the arms of imperfection.
Happiness ebbs and flows with the most certain uncertainty.
This, in striking contrast to the certain fleeting moments of happiness which are swiftly replaced by the most dire of miseries…relentless miseries with no end in sight.
Of what kind of insanity am I possessed to even begin to entertain the possibility of such an existence?
A brief high, a short romance and then the condemnation of a bitter, foul emptiness.
Yes, I will chose time and again the imperfection of years that have somehow become perfected by their own faults.
Something that has rooted itself deeply and permanently cannot be tarnished by those passing moments of the promise of something better…happiness cannot be extracted from something forged by lust created through anger and desperation.
From within your
Contriteness, find your