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Meaning of life and love through the filter of depression
Desolate conglomerate hopelessly thought of it, speaking these lies in the air.
Pessimistic nobility seem to ability, dancing and pacing under my hair.
Thoughtless evolving destroying and scalding resurrecting my shouts I could share.
Anger epiphany of what it had meant to me, burning silence in to my stare.
Violently negotiating ghosts of appropriating morality destructing moments of impossible care.
Dreamless awakenings, questioning saving me from an objectionably improbable fair.
Situations arising have left emotions surprisingly independent of conciously known.
Sickness abrasive, pushing for native and destroying any chance of my hope.
Stressful and cunning, endlessly burning instructing the resource of knowledgable intent.
Appropriately agonizing the need of mesmerizing a sense of impossible regret.
Pushing and lifting a point of resistance and destructing the image of need,
Transforming my being in impossible scenes of pointless suffer and despair.
Hell, appropriately named yet endlessly blamed as an end game to souls who lost to the storm.
If it exists, it has nothing on this, not life lived appropriating a proper form.
Endlessly struggle and climb all the hurdles until death itself is the final retreat.
Life, unfit for mere cowards, has wasted these hours telling me words that I can never read.
Lessons unfit, if you think with said wit, nudge to a false belief.
No matter my gains, or success, or myfame, one day there is nothing but sleep.
