Sickness

Sickness (by me)

Dead pseudo-life, just abyss

Silly beings, a futile mirage

Going down, steeply deep

In search of burdenless facts

A huge mass of dark matter

Tar-like fluids coming down

A sea of uncried velvety black tears

Jet-black pieces of rotten flesh

What a putrid stench they emanate!

Bruises on my skin

Stitches that no longer stand

Soon, wounds will open

Fetid clots will come out

Decaying sinews will get cut

And all my limbs will be undone

Oh burden, you bound me to life

You make everything real

And tear it all apart

You infect my brain

Pus fills my head

It twists, slithers and always remains

Existence makes me feel nauseous, the very idea of existing nauseates me, that repulsive feeling of rejection coming from me and heading to the outside is disgusting. I am alive without being aware of it, and death should not be of my concern since death is not here now, and the day it is, I will no longer exist. However, I still keep on struggling day after day to battle on, fighting in an already lost war.

No matter what, I always feel I am not myself, it’s never me. That’s the point of insanity where I come to the conclusion that I can longer tell the difference between my desires and the desires that come from the rest of the people in the outside. Sometimes I even feel that my whole being is just a vulgar copy; a badly polished mirror. I might seem authentic, but I am definitely unauthentic, nothing of what I am or have, is actually mine. There’s no me, it’s all theirs.

Perhaps the average people are able to symbolize death till a certain extent, but I hate the human condition, the weakness and lightness of beings and the finiteness of life.