Sick in the head
Sick in the head. Twisted. Demented. Sitting in bed, conflicted again. The brink of depression isn’t what I think you expect. No physical strength. Minimal effort. I quit while ahead, open my mind to fill it with dread. Those are the signs. Prescriptional medicine. Hope for the best. Over the counter drugs, over and over again. Missold on our well being until nobodies left. Alone with this empty feeling. Social rejection. Low as it gets. High as your mortgage rate and loaded with debt. Emotional wreck. Trying to walk away, but growths introspective. Smoke cigarettes, a copium mechanism sold by its strength. Every one inhaled a coffin nail that goes through your chest, puncturing lungs. Cold as the septic blood as it runs. Throbbing veins not the same as they must have been once. A glutton for punishment. The constant strain now doubling up. It’s a lot of pain for something you love but one a day’s a wonderful drug.
The light at the end for you. All my chakras aligned with the crescent moon. Time is an ever-moving construct our lives are connected to, finding that seconds move slower than minutes, flying by us the less we do. The liars neglected truth in favour of falsity, religion was born to imprison us all and made it compulsory. I wish I was born to witness The Lord’s physical form, but I was busy adorning the devil’s crown with thickets and thorns. This isn’t normal. I’m the crux that sticks in your claw to limit the boredom. A whimsical author. Sinister shitkicker and talker, but I bring a different aura to the dicks linked on these forums. The kids sicker than all ‘em, Stage 5 cancer since I was yay high. Thanks for nothing. My brain died after. The shit I talks pretty morbid like graveside laughter, in a morgue with the coroner over breaktime banter. Daylight shattering evening darkness. Heater sparker. I keep a llama and might just Mary a side piece like Jesus’ father. The crime scene departments most serious target. I’m really in the streets. The villain of the piece, featured article photographed by Peter Parker. I’ve been at large, front page news with bars for eternity hard to fit perfectly. Turn your sunday snooze into Monday blues, like the start of the working week. My skins imprinted with triple sixes. The mark of returning beasts.
Key style ish
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