Simmage

I hate this. This feeling. This enigma, eating; consuming me. I need this. This burn. This ache in my side. I want this. This emotion. This longing, the desire to continue onward. I can't stand this. This life. This simple, complex existence; this being. I must have this. This stabbing. This irate situation; breaking me down. This confusing story. Of life, of death. Of love, of hate. Of us, of them. I don't care about this. This nothing. This thing of absolute emptiness. This devil. This demon – Tempting me to continue onward. This sadness. This anger – burning me, killing me. Begging me to try. I forget about this. This ag

If WHY were a where, a who, a care, if WHY were a thing, a cause, or a there. If WHY was far off, and over the sea, WHY would be where it needed to be. If WHY was close, near and so clear, why would be here. If WHY was smart and sharp like a dart, if WHY was tall, or short, or small, WHY would be perfect, above all. If WHY was noble, a call to arms, if WHY was unjust, cruel; a fuss, WHY would be the cause for me. WHY compels, attracts, repels. WHY subtracts, adds, too many to tell. If WHY was shiny, expensive and posh, if WHY was cheap, old and stained, WHY would grant anyone glee. For what if not WHY do we all have? A house, a home, a bed

Lunacy, say I, lunacy. The songs of morrows eve do not echo to bring arise my sprightliness. These garish words exchanged are harrowing my spirit and dampening my soul. If this be the heaven I was preached, to the last, or be damned, I shall denounce thy intent and become not but a stigma upon thy gospels. I have become destruction in marrow, destroyer in form, and scourge to thy venture. To the final destiny I shall dare; the defiler of thy volition.