Thought by design, beauty in death, martyrdom or something, I tried to make sense of it
all. When did the world end and why did no one tell me? I kept living thinking everything
was as it should be. It exists as a house now, purely to fill a quarter, to occupy a
routine, to exist for the sake of taking up space.
Nothing is ever the same.
Everything is ever changing. The world has stopped spinning and everything has lost
its meaning. I've never branched in a tunnel.
By design, beauty in death, martyrdom or maybe just displaced, jiggered in a summer's sweat.
I've been in part, but still.
Why?
I hate how it's been.
I hate my body.
I hate my voice.
I'm like a stupid human being.
I feel the same.
I'm not the same.
I'm not me.
I feel like someone.
If I swoon today, I'll become one.
Maybe I'll return tomorrow.
Maybe I'll return tomorrow.
Thank you.
I am no martyr and I never have been.
I am no martyr and I never have been.