I have become distent again,
My only release is this pen,
But it all still exist and it persists,
I can both create and distroy…
It is all within my ability,
And it is but a slice of my misory.
What can I do, if I am to tired to do anything?
Even when writing it seems like an uphill struggle,
If I existed without emotion, then all woould be perfect…
But nothing is perfect, is it?
It isn’t ment to be, our lust shall never be satisfied,
For our greed consumes us, forever growing,
And it is never going away.
It mutters its call and we beckon,
As if, if we do not we shall be forsaken,
It is our own creation, the depravity,
Of not getting something, you want so bad…
At the time…
We believe what we like, decide what we can…
But somewhere we await command…
We are damned to our own destruction…
To fail in a way that no-one else can…