Depression is a veil, devours all with the coming tide, encompasses the face of affection, a foaming mouth shrouded in obscurity

Sadness is a sanctuary, a place to call your own, to pray invisible tears, to kneel in worship of it’s mesmorizing beauty

Hate is a median, dwell on it every moment, try not to deviate from it’s slick tendrils or fragrant attraction like that of a wilted orchid

Suicide is a delusion, yearn to sleep swathed in it’s affection, a crowning achievement of heroes, the peak of existence

Lust is an excommunication, lacerates wounds in a necessitated ego, discovers faults in the underground pattern of veins

Joy is a fleeting cloud, disapating in the stratosphere, an overzealous child wrestling for tranquility in the zephyr gales

Death is a falling star, wishing with coins tossed in an elaborate fountain, water dripping in rhythm to the tune of desire

Time is not stagnant, swaying boughs of a desiduous forest, unconstrained and illusory labyrinth guarded by memories

Success is not perceptible, shimmering mirage of fascination, a purple lake, too superficial to wade across the opposite shore

Subsistence is not purposeful, procrastinating inevitable means, casting nets of damaged hair in a sea of imperceptable beings

Annihilation is not the conclusion, releasing falsehoods like helium kites, a festival of celebrated destruction at my own hand