My Disease.

Like a disease,

Seeping through your skin,

Like sea water in your cuts,

Pumping through your bloodstream,

Devouring of emotion,

Your empty case,

Just a bunch of breathing bones,

Intruding upon space.

The idea even confused me,

Forcing me to try and understand why and how i could feel this way,

Living was simple, i had it easy,

So i kept asking the question,

Why.

Why did i feel as though every step i made was like walking upon a wire,

As if i was trudging towards a cliff,

Where the rocks below were blood thirsty hounds waiting for my fall,

How my effort was passed aside with all the other shit no one cares about,

My heart being drained of my only life support and incinerated with every last bit of hope i contained,

The love i once possessed, kidnapped by the pain that my entire body depended on,

The same pain which led me to my death.

It taught me to remember,

Remember every hurtful word thrown at me, like that fist you used to use,

Or that slap across my pure pristine, painless face, that gave me the wake up call that,

Im not worth it,

Im not worth being thought about,

Cared about or loved,

I didn't deserve to be happy or live an ordinary life,

I am a monstrous, self-absorbed, useless, obese, waste of space nobody,

Understanding that pain is all i'll ever be worthy of.

But mental pain wasn't good enough.

So i drew that razor sharp, ice cold, shimmering tool of happiness through my thick soiled skin,

Producing a sea of emotions that would fill my room, drowning me from life untill...

Im pulled back, back to my disease, but further and deeper.

Causing me to build my house of straw upon the tip Melancholy Mountain,

Balancing on the point, the edge, the verge of destruction.

Everyday that went by felt like years,

My story spreading across the contours of my skin,

Like that disease within,

I had built my boat on that red sea, so i had to let it flow,

Otherwise the drought would leave me stranded with the nothingness i had become.

Sometimes, being so high up,

Through the innocent, fluffy clouds into an empty space of Sapphires, Amethyst's and Corals,

Formed the ideas of how soon my wire i balanced so steadily upon, had to end,

Ironic, because the 'end of the line' is another way of putting Death.

I thought more and more, in fact all i could do was think,

Yet i still could never produce a solution to the paradox i created,

Maybe the decease of my existence was the cure to this disease,

And if i did not exist then my illness cannot spread.

I would love to say i cured this disease without my suicide,

But i cant,

This sadness still fills my case everyday,

Its my organs, my veins and my skin,

Its my consuming thoughts, my words and my appearance.

This disease is my doctor and my nurse,

Its my pills to pop and my medicine to toast- to being sad and becoming all i deserve.

Intruding upon space,

Just a bunch of breathing bones,

Your empty case,

Devouring of emotion,

Pumping through your bloodstream,

Like sea water in your cuts,

Seeping through your skin,

Like a Disease.

My Disease.

-G.W