I do not write to impress.
I write towards my own distress.
Not of my own free will,
as I am chained to this windowsill.
I am no longer able to rest.
These long and dark nights,
stricken by trembling thoughts,
and the absence of all light.
None to witness my somber decay,
as I rot, and fade away,
into an empty space.
My blood has become that of caffeine,
as I remain awake, even though I am dead.
And I’ve placed my sanity at stake,
even though insanity is in its stead.
Mad, mad I’ve gone, I tell you.
Though the bloodied tears
have eroded away my already
receding years.
I fear for the worst,
yet I hope for the best.
I dream of changing the world,
and winning the heart of
the lonely girl upon a windowsill,
looking out towards the sky,
valuing the rest of her life.
And I imagine myself there,
beside her, somewhere.
Though, that may never happen,
as I am cursed with illness,
and as I am dying, having gone insane.
Though, all the best people are,
since we are all the same,
living on this magnificent planet,
playing life’s game.
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