You call yourself a slave but there’s no master to be seen; a slave with dust for shackles; dust from lies, mistakes and greed, but you mask them by presenting them as fatal acts of crime like a tune with redundant bass.
You call yourself a slave; a victim to the circumstances of life, yet you wake up and stare into the eyes of your master while standing in front of the mirror, and while vision is made clearer, more changes the demeanor you take towards yourself while you blame the accusing eyes of those around you for your demise.
Solitude has been deemed a punishment, so what wrongdoing am I paying for?
I am confronted with the despicable warmth of uncertainty, without a compass to guide me from the edge of the world, where I scream into the abyss, without a soul to witness the horrors of pure nothingness.
I am warm, but never hot.
I am warm, but never cold.
Stuck in the middle without a way to consume me, while the lack of passion slowly sucks away my essence as I stand outside my own body witnessing expressionless.
What is life without a purpose? What is a poem without the prose?
Solitude has been deemed a punishment, so what wrongdoing am I paying for?
I am confronted with the despicable warmth of uncertainty, without a compass to guide me from the edge of the world, where I scream into the abyss, without a soul to witness the horrors of pure nothingness.
I am warm, but never hot.
I am warm, but never cold.
Stuck in the middle without a way to consume me, while the lack of passion slowly sucks away my essence as I stand outside my own body witnessing expressionless.
What is life without a purpose? What is a poem without the prose? What is life without being consumed by the madness of passion?
It’s another way of saying the word “misery”. It’s the most painful subtraction.