tHe iLL WiLL oF SeLF

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A Man's Traveled Heart

tHe iLL WiLL oF SeLF 

Brush upon a canvass, creating a brake-less variety of colors. Coating the moments, one feels branchless in the world. Trying to find where to plant thoughts like seeds and become the brightness one needs so gravely. 

But what business is left to do when one feels of a walking carcass? 

Covering all basis of the damned, feeling breathless, almost brainless in the wandering of life. Ceaseless does one feel when colors do not blend. When thoughts become an eager chorus of claim-less doubts. Skirting the very breath of death, raising a blade in wishing for clearness. But only to feel as if one’s heart has become daftness to even the oldest closeness. 

Disconnected in self, darkness becomes so dauntless one feels nameless in self. Puttering on the edges of thoughtless swamps. Drowning in pitiful dimness of the rash and quivering in the coldness of regret. Running from the shadows that one has created in conscious toils of constant census of a callus witness.

What does one do when crudeness of thought is all that blazes the fields of hope? Burning in endless doubt, craving the dreamless arid deadness that is misery. Sucking on the fruitless attempts to find what will draw only fringe-less hope. Because something is better than nothing, than becoming headless among the living. Suffocating in the helpless cries till one becomes too sore to open their eyes. 

Building dull justice in the capturing of torment upon self. Bleeding dry from lawless dribble one sets out to cast blame to others. Leaving one thinking they roam free in the likeness of all. Creating limbless thoughts crying wolf from the luscious lips of suffering. 

Creating oldness in what is young, acting naive in the wills of self. As if no thought, no flesh, no temptation is the fault of self.  Becoming drawl in the production of self, but acting as if one is of better status with thankless lips. Connecting of false tries of stringless words as stiffness of faith draws one tearless of one’s own exodus. 

What does one have left in the dubious loss of insanity in the fallacious calls of pitiful lustfulness?

How does one rescue thyself in the malicious attacks upon thee?  

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Thank you for reading, have you ever let yourself become chaotic in ill thought of self?

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