i do not know how much longer can this go on.
why must the wheel of life be so tireless, i wonder.
and i am so sick of everyone now.
myself included of course.
i'm beginning to envision various ways in which to end me
for once and all.

weariness is not in my bones.
it's under my eyes.
and on the orbs whose shine were dulled.

because choicelessness is not an excuse now.
the claustrophobia i've found and nourished in that cramped space
with the mannequins masquerading as machines
is closing on my windpipe
cutting off my vitals supplies
of air and breath.

my growls and yells are trapped
manifesting instead as physical ailments.
och, they hurt, they pained.

but then there's nothing new with this now.
that's it.
the sense of deja vu
so strong
that it permeated on the very clothes that i wear
the expressions i pasted on.

pride, my crutch and my downfall.
my backbone and my nerves.
it alone won't let me scream
'i'm done!'.

are sufferings my broth?
torments my brandy?

then i forsake them now
i would forbear.

slip after slip, after slip
that i've lost count
almost completely.

the anticipated days seem so far ahead of me
and their grins so sickening
so revolting are their platitudes.

damn you bitches, shut your holes!

and bless thee, strength.
perseverance i hold on to
but my palms are so sweaty
my grip so lacking in conviction.

how then?
you sleep and you wake up
everything stays the same
and you're horrified
but you feet are cast in plaster
they weighed you down so heavily.