A man may hold much poison within the treacherous depths of the chasms that life has carved with singular cruelty into his heart, the chasms long founded and rooted in older things of a darker intent but there has to be a limit to how much the vessel contains, before the subtle cracks take a more serious form of structural flaws no solitary act of redemption may repair.

Depression casts a long shadow as each decrepit finger of it’s grip consumes a little more of the hope that came before the crushing fall, no one can deny the mirrors need covering, blinds closed, when self loathing looks you back from shame filled eyes.

What do you stand for, what have you done, why are you still breathing and who the fuck cares

Questions passing through the void that bridges endlessly gaping spaces between the man you want to be and who you see with your poisonously tainted vision, every time the reflections catch you with that face, that identity you’ve been cursed to ensure.

Two o’clock in the morning and a mind warped with self destructive tendencies seeks the forgone conclusion, clear liquid swilling in the glass should be vodka most pure.

I’ll finish this another time, if by morning I am still alive!


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