maybe let mental illness wash over me
the pains of pressure and isolation
and the habits of self-loathing
just add more resolve
to a place that I cannot fathom escaping from
spring has betrayed me
I only want autumn to come and wash away all remnants of hope
leaving me as bare as winter boughs
the apparent waste of creation stuns me
for what use vivid red or thick sweat or the gross of tears?
it’s simply amassing a mockery of the spirit and a destruction of any sense of humor
I never should have binged on “reality”
some of us are too weak-kneed for unflagging defeat

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