Ill be ok.
Here I am, at the end of my ways.
Here I hold in one hand a slow beating heart halfed while the other is missing.
In the other a knife as a replacement to a soluable vexation.
Should I finish the job, and kill what's left of this shrunken lifeforce that beats but rarely throbs.
Trying to convince myself through insanity that I should finish the job.
Or would you like me to continue closing these shutters, to drown out my sobs.
To record and play fake music for one to listen to the lyrics of my alternate reality.
Whether you are guilty to know the truth, or not.
It's not my job.
But it must be such a delight to not see in, but to hear fake laughing that has been robbed from tonics that are distilled from the finest of cobs.
This. I know I should not.
Then again, a sign is displayed on my front door that states " Disturbed lives here, so please do not"
To this, I'll take another shot.
While I scream a thousand pains as it reverbs until I cannot stop.
Until my liver rots away with everything else.
Until my pictures are displayed next to the honorable and fallen.
Even though I am not even worthy enough to have miseries foot pressed against my back while I'm crawling.
Yes. I may be "comfortable in my own misery" as you state.
While Ive preached chapters to anyone who tried to fathom, while dubiousity overstayed and displayed to my dismay a million times.
In the midst I never expected an answer, or anything for anyone to say.
While I knew there might have been a chance.
Or it just maybe might have been too late.
While your more than welcome to come visit, open arms with respect will be gracefully paid.
To feel bad or sorry just for fake masks of clarification and false hope for a hungry snake.
Sure ok, whatever you may.
For my sake, it is not to obfuscate.
But to educate at the end of the day.
Like a committment without tieing the knot.
Promise me that you wont end up wanting to stay.
As long I am here.
You'll be ok.
And if I am not.
I'll be ok.