the truth to my marks

"the truth to my marks"

( a last trial of attempt to whatever well-being is )

...again, the lumps and molten rocks never fail their task to stood beneath the flesh and bones, holding hostage of my life forces, at night, when I'd unconsciously suffocate. 

All this interpretation I do, of the screams I feel around my body, of the ghouls I see lingering around me, haunting. The act of it, drains all the desperate lights under my skin to the lowest of settings, putting me in battery saving mode. 

But, surely, there's no denying that on the very last bit of it, it spares me, from the tormenting tornados, thunders, beggars, eruptions, earthquakes, red massacres and eroding sea waves. 

The act of it, is the very last thing I could do, to salvage what's left from the rotten dreams and quirks, to avert eyes from the glaring abyss, to at least leave scars and remarks to the ground whilst I struggling for the tinies bit of sanity, to at least have the possibility for leaving the world in a short stun, for they've heard all the self-pity preaches I've wrote. 

To attain the smallest of fame I deserve to have, for all the unsaid hurts I’ve buried to below the ground of my red, lush flesh, eating the redness of it away by and by, until it has plunged into the darkness I’ve truly forbidden myself to wither into, for all the unspent love to the world and all of its walking, breathing, living creatures, beautiful creatures, ah the wonderfullness of it all, but had turned into a raging hatred towards the same subject, leaving me fully torn apart, into two of minds, for I am out of the capabilities to handle juggling both morals when such small reality, the physical form of the rope, that my eyes could see.  

I'm tired.

of living.