You find comfort in your slow death. After every night, you return to your same cave, bereft of any closeness and joy you once felt in a sea of people. You only felt comfort in the sea of drink that you so induldge in, knowing full well that your "meaningful" words are immediately forgotten. The laughter you exuberate is but a longdistant expression of your nothingness. You lie to these people. "I'm fine, I'm alright." just to diverge the conversation from your pains even though you always end up discussing them. It'll be over soon. I know why you do the things you do, why you act the way you do. In the same motion that you'd wish that someone would hear your tears behind your platinum smiles, you push the world away to accept your inevitability. You want the end, you crave it. The simple fact that you may find eternal sleep is the only thought that pushes you on. You tried to justify your stupidity with the lives of those around you, but you will be alone. As you always have. And its okay that way. It doesn't matter who wins what battle, it doesn't matter what takes your heart or mind. You've established long ago that you have lost the war.

You cried out for a heart to hear your voice but ultimately realized that it did not matter if even such a soul existed to hear the tears of your heart. It is fine this way. You wash away yesterday in alcohol and tears. It doesn't matter is all that you can say to yourself even as you cry into the early morn as you mourn. It is all dead, or it will be soon. And you find your peace in the fact that the world won't need you any longer. You'll be castrated aside and scoffed away like old wineskins. You served your limited bullshit purpose. Find your peace in silence. Thats what you tell yourself every waking day. That is your comfort. You cry and scream alone hoping for someone to hear your twisted lips. But it does no one any good. Silence yourself. Be still in your pain. Find peace in your torment and die in darkness, peacefully forgotten. Wiped away from the memories of those around you. That was your wish.

You're unnecessary.

I've written so many poems about lovers but it who was it I was speaking of? Nobody thinks to answer the question but they're always filled with answers. Maybe it wasn't who, but what. Does it matter?... I've said it too many times, I only find love's kiss at the ass end of the wizard's potion. SI.IS.GO.

Silence Is Golden. I'm just repeating myself these days. The message is still the fucking same. But the pain just reimburses its purse. The same fucking payment. "I only find joy in..." I find joy in nothing, just momentary passes of time that mitigate the pain for a minute.

Unecessary. Unneeded. Dead. I'd prefer it that way.

In this age of paranoia, it is so far to believe that the man in the corner is the one who accesses all hearts. It is so inconceivable that he was even capable of feeling, or that he would feel so deeply where none would be able to reach his, but his heart touches all. In this age of paranoia, It was spoken long ago that the love of many shall wax cold. And where lips should be full of milk and honey, we grovel and spill blood for dung and soil. Lo, I shed an ocean's worth of tears in agony for the temperament of my brothers. And yet evenstill, I am filled with a keen hope for what tomorrow may bring upon my blinded eyes. The flame of purity and goodwill still burns ever so brightly in the bosom of mankind.