'Tis true that my spirit is indeed
tormented
all those seek to tarry around
and feed me with their lies
do indeed pierce my heart and shred
my mind
I rest a victim to their torments
and exist as a martyr to mine own
imagination
yet none remains more tormenting
than my own person
Oh, that this rank, festering world
would swallow me up in an abyss
lights move gracefully around asphalt
and people mill to and fro
and here sit I, oh mighty me of
stubbled face and reeking scent, and oppose them
I remain, evermore with naught
to do, a slave to insanity. Mine own insanity
As if pasted to my chair, I lose
myself in computer fantasy
and do acknowledge my own disuse
To exist, to breathe, to love, to
live
that is the query and the hub of
mine misery
who exists to remove me from my
melancholy
one who lives a life of purpose,
from which gains are received
mine own existence is plagued by
candy givers
thus I remain, in all days, an
aimless wretch
As life sifts through the great
hourglass
and seconds turn into years of
woe
so have I laid in an empty bed
without comfort, without gain,
without purpose
I lack the warmth to guide me
and stroke my fevered brow when
ill winds blow
Why canst mine wretched motives
be tuned to success?
Oh, woe is mine collar and fate
my leash
Why do I write mere words of distress
'stead to go out and create new
hope?
I search for a kind face in the
darkness
to look into my turquoise eyes
and bring me light
Promises have I made to a mind less
fettered
Speak we of time passing, lest
to reunite our souls in mutual bondage
'tis a bondage most welcome, but
one of great responsibility
Less years, verily though, make
not us less prepared
for who are we to make judgment
on the fates
and to tempt weeping waterfalls
with tales of self-search?
I, me, have much study to accomplish
but not we all in a life worth
living to seek out true and dispel false?
Not we all to wrestle with demons
and be tempted by succubi
those that would lure us to temptation
and loss
Look us down now and see us the
instrument of our pleasure
that which is so much more than
a wand of procreation
Life followed by death is but academic
'tis a fate unavoidable by mortal
man
yet to see those such as me who
would waste such life
praying to false gods and compelled
by mine own slothful tendencies
or that my purposes were fruited
and my being worth keeping
Else what am I, but one who should
simply sink into slumber and never wake again