For this week, I've decided to do another poem, mostly because I like poetry, and it is a form of short story. This one is a mixture of feelings I've had years ago, and a look at a wasted life. Granted I'm not unhappy anymore,mbut I feel the healthiest thing to do as a writer is to revisit those feeling every-so-own, instead of pretending that they were never there.
A Consequence of Anger
I feel so distraught, so empty and weak
Inside, I cannot sleep. This torture, it is of
My own doing, like an aardvark, I go around
Scraping up ants in my snout, just like Ozzy did.
In a mescaline haze, I cut off fingers and toes.
Lost in a alabaster glow of synthetic bullshit.
My life is worthless,going on for far too long.
Depression is sickening me at every turn. Forlorn.
I want it to end, the same daily routine, I want something
Real, i want to feel the knife bleed me dry, not some cry for help.
Like a sarcaphagus of lies, buried deep within my rage-turn body,
I only want to fight and bite, and grit my teeth until the skin pulls loose.
I'm sick of the monsters under my skin, tearing flesh and making me angry
I can't control myself, like I was born to enslave myself in a hell of my own design.
If it were not for the phosphorus lights above, celestial croons of gaseous glory.
I'd have left this world so much earlier than now, a blade in hand, an angel at my feet.
A blast of fury rages from me with uncontrollable tempers, so hot, they torch magma.
A hate so deeply filled by years of a use, and the lack of adulthood....the baying howls.
I want it to end,mbut I want to keep living, because I'm a good friend of nothing.
Death will be my acquirer, and in my heated rage, a synapse will burst, and in a coffin I will lay.
It is easier to do nothing, than be told to do everything, the old ways are dying, and I'm left behind.
I deserve more, I a. Entitled, because I've controlled my rage for so long. Yet my future is gone.
I've been lost in all this, and what do I have to show for it? Nothing! Fucking nothing!!
My downfall is televised online, my end comes from a forum of eager onlookers, the daily dying.
Why is my life worth something? 8 billion fools, and mine is as important? Doubtful, and a blatant
Lie! Confounded morons who put emphasis on unwarranted self-importance. Fools!
Yet, if I end it, may I take my a sure with me, with a gale force wind of shock and awe.
Let me trifle the trifling, kick the cancer, and knife the nutcase. Let me release it all.
Anger and death lingering in my path, and all I have to show for it is this stupid carcass.
Later this week I'll have another Short story Weekly Post up, so there will be two this week.
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