Covered in dust
I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep
Wondering who I must have been to have walked right into Hell
I’ve thrown away my silver pens
Staring out this window
I’m drawn by things that I cannot be
I’m tethered to this body with ropes made of barbwire
The days are going faster
I am thinking through things much slower
I’m trapped inside this mind that does not believe in me
I do not believe in me
Using medieval types of torture on my own flesh
I deserve it
I’m my own monster in sheep’s clothing
I’m so skilled in deceit
I even trick myself into believing I’m a saint
Are the spirits of the dead so bad?
In the night they whisper promises of peace
Times when I will no longer trudge through mud to find an ounce of light
Does anyone think glass is still beautiful when it’s broken?
One would only see distorted reality
A face that is whole, yet not fitted in the right places
You would see me
I’m here again
Where does one find purpose?
The only destination that I see is death
What does it matter what happens in between?