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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Humble yesterday, your intimate memories are now bearing false witness, following our demise. There are scattered whispers of a residential cloud nine, that I called my own after the storm. No myth could be written guiltier. For beyond this stable armor of masculinity, existed a worst case scenario that I had obtained. It is no fault of your own, to interpret me with the simplest guess, and yet, it would be the greatest therapeutic comfort, knowing that you recalled my brief torture. Here it reads. The cruelest servant was obviously day one. For as I showered in my own gloom, the clearest joy accepted no hint of my presence. The hours worked overtime to deplete every page of life, that bordered around this broken clockwork of loneliness. By now I merely existed by priorities merciless hand. As I forced myself upon my studies, there was no absence of absent guilt on call. I realized this inevitable misstep, the moment I stumbled into a single entity yet again. By the time I found a conscience to shave towards a better day, spring had already departed, and I was just beginning to exit sobrieties unbearable cliff. The cause to blame beyond myself was tempting; to see the bewildered scene, as opposed to feeling its complex wounds. I yearned for this flood to cease constantly, in retrospect, prematurely. However, the suffering hadn’t pierced my spirit just yet. That cherry that ultimately left a mark on top was my sick eyes. Perhaps defined as the perfect fate for the already faltered, was my cluttered throat, which allowed no apologetic cliques to exist in air. The devil’s vomit that would not pause until more suffering regurgitated, and lastly, the mindful ache that vibrated at its own intervals. Friends could sense the hell that plagued my sleep. So much that they offered their similar battles to my faint ears. I heard their souls, but never their hearts; only mine was selfish enough for that luxury, despite its hostile coma. But then, 5 months, 22 days, and 4 afternoon hours later, another chapter was introduced, and it was entitled The Aftermath. The acceptance of what could only be formerly beautiful, came to be the answer that cured me. In the end, I was thankful for the inferno, and overjoyed that these words could be written from Solomon’s throne. Previous rose, as you open and fold these heartfelt abrasions, be mindful of these moments that are no longer bleeding, but rather teaching, of those bullets that never truly miss.
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