Solace in seclusion, my form vexed by the door,
Hatred protrude out my mouth and onto the floor.
Green, vile puss and blood swimming on the tile.
I stare and let it rot, so it intertwines the being bile.
I stare long and hard, hoping I become it.
Realizing I am this mess of a sickly pit.
Paler than white, and off white yet in good health.
Though the related cohort explains I am in good wealth.
In good mind, in good being.
In good stride, a life worth living.
Then the worms eat away, the disease is surely here to stay.
Yet, I am not sick and should be pompous and gay.
The echoes of these worms tells me things.
When to smoke, when to cry, that I am merely on strings.
The window is vast and far.
I stare, looking at the passing life and how they are,
So much better than me,
So much more than glee.
And I sit, scared of this sunlit/moonlit world
I am pure genius, and no one will see.
Frightened by even the next room, frightened by a key.
Its my chance to break free, my chance to shine.
But calmness decays, I regret and whine.
I spit at a mirror, and give a murmur,
And hate this life of rot.
Others have it better, others have it worse.
I have no excuse, despite my furtive curse.
A curse that tells me what to do,
tells me how to feel, what I chew,
That all is bad, and noting is good.
That I am nothing, no livelihood.
The words hits the skull, emulating through the cerebellum.
The ink running out, I remain a corrigendum.
Remain unclear what I am, or what is inside,
Remain afraid to ever go outside.
Remain a sitting bug,
Remain infected and lug.
Remain the same and remain dead.
Please, I beg, kill this disease that remains in my head.
