Tear out my eyes, rip out my soul, stomp on my spirit.
I am lower than scum.
There is no life for me and yet I live.
Where is my purpose?
Squirming, crawling, occupying, following consumes all moments of consciousness. I live to eat and be amused by all that is mundane and lacking value.
I am less than a worm.
Sliding along the path of greatest adversity gives me pleasure.
I would never admit this. I cling to it. It’s a drug, a high to fight and struggle over and over again to climb out of depravity and failure, to barely get by.
Aware of the paths that lead to most ideas of success does not satisfy me.
Of a small mind and limited view is my simple jellied consciousness.
Bringing real feelings along with messages of inspiration and imagination to life. Awakening is the symptom of my infectious condition. Poetry is my condition.