Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god


The bright of stars has led me to your room of secrets,
Which you are laying in, shuddering on the ground
In the fetal position, saying prayers to invisible angels
And hoping that I don't see you. I'll hold your hand
And we'll get through this together, as a team.

The end of days keeps you curled in a ball,
Wobbling back and forth, rarely smiling,
Breathing labored, face contorted, eyes glazed over.
At times I wonder if you are suffering a heart attack,
I'm scared that I may never see you as you once were.

The smallness of obsession keeps me coming back,
And to you I whisper words that you interpret
To mean nothing at all. You just sit there, on your
Haunches, waiting for someone to belittle you
Or make you feel like you should never have been born.

Even now, I wish you hadn't been born; you suffer too greatly.

April 21, 2004

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