the wild and tormenting desire to disappear;
where does it come from?
i sit behind a mirror; a vile and sickly creature, enslaved by her imaginations, constantly comparing the present to the future, until the present is the future, but not the future imagined.
i take a deep breath.
pride tries to convince me I'm not meant for this world; this world of dying artists, this inferior world —no, I'm meant for something bigger... self-deprecation laughs in the far distance.
so i sit.
behind this mirror, behind these shattering dreams that promised me they would rule the world with raging ignorance; a tempest in the sea of power, worshiped by nothing other than my stupidity.
who does the burden transfer to, when another disappears?
YOU ARE READING
where the poets went to die
Poetrythis: this is the blood that i bled on the day that i first felt what sadness meant. this is the tears that i shed on the battlefield of life when my dreams died. this is the shame that only god knows of on the day i welcomed my first sin. this is t...
