Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god

Alveolate

No resolution.
My weary hands clasped together,
Begging the black sky for a savior
But getting only contrite smiles,
Whimsical with hate and gathering
No bane worth existing for.
Where once sadness rested now lies
A disgust so thick, it resembles a pill on my tongue.
Like cyanide, I desire to swallow it down
And let my insides whittle it to nothing.
My scars canonize regret, and I'm like a levee
Ready to burst forth a sad fury of repressed disdain.
My joy in bleeding exacerbates my fear in living.
With vigor, I thrust forth what little emotion
Can be spewed from my melted heart.
I sulk in forgotten memories,
To no avail can I now not remember.
The profusion of hate climbs through my veins.
With instigation, I continue to search through
The reminiscent catacombs of this pallor wage slave.
When will the acrimony wane?
The future hitherto unknown,
And me demanding fairness in an unjust world,
I can only laugh pathetically, return incognita,
And hide myself away from the horrible tusks of
Such a memory that gored itself deeper
Than I would dare to gouged.
I return, saturnine.
But inside, I'm hollow, like I've been bled out.

6-7-11


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Alveolate

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