To think I’m doing nothing but disintegrating, at this point, over something that has muscled me up, is capricious in the most futile sense. Shit happens, and nothing is ever going to stop it from adding anxiety in that repetitive restlessness under my blanket, and I accept that more truly than my own capabilities, but to be writhing like this makes me feel weak.

Hitherto, like the sun that burns the eyes after having strained those very agents the entire night brazen, all I want is to shut down. I have my support, I have my will power, and I have a brain that has to go on a self abort mission every time I pretend to grow myself.

Moisture begotten, I relapse

Once, twice, ninety eight times a day

Boiling tea helps not the senses consuming it

Currents paralyse those very hands

And the tea cup falls to aftershock

After all, it’s nothing but demise

Etched on every coin I’ve earned

I put bullocks behind turning it over

To witness a curiosity on my drug enticing me to

Blink twice at the newspaper thrown in the balcony

At six without fail

Because the usuals seem abrupt

Screaming galaxies drawn of charcoal

Light shown twenty minutes back, but I withhold now

And there’s hair fallen around my legs

A small frustration scarred above my right eyebrow

Volcanoes erupting in narrowed eyes

And i relapse six storeys below.


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