Some Days.

Some days, the way of ways is to collapse.

The end of reason brings hateful seasons, degenerate heathens of misquoted treasons.

For free to see the seas churning and be it me or insanity, I’m lost. Gun-cocked by generations, chopping blocks and shale rocks, when it all comes together. I’m locking down the seconds, reckon the end will come sooner; I hope.

And red rooms are tombs unto remorse and sooner-than-later tunes.

Hearts break, some days.

The blood pours out and covers the floor, and the red room is death.

Hearts shatter, some days.

We wallow in shallow pools of blood and mud, fallow creatures so heartless, and we disregard less.

Save my soul, I say, pray that I may see another day, sins of the father aren’t a bother, it is the sins of the son, one who thinks what’s done is done. I want a good run, I want endless sun, I want heaven among.

Want serenity to come.

Men crumble, some days.

I’m vexed at tests of life and love, shoved through hoops even as I scoop my blood off the floor, again and again.

I’m looking for organ donors to replace the hearts I’ve had broken.

I love and I hate, but I debate fate just as I scorn fake joy. A boy in a grown man’s body, applaud me, for I’ve discovered I want to be loved!

People give in, some days.

But counting the ways to death is the only thing we’ve got.

So keep it a hot take subject, or we’ll freeze.

Please deliver.

Pain hurts, some days, and I chain smoke to glaze my eyes over, phase myself so I’m a new sort of addict, because I need something to love, right?

The consequences of my actions are merely consequences of consequences.

I feel alone, some days.

It’s simple that I should fight on, long a pawn of possible addiction to substance and person. Hearse and a Coffin, could be clubbin’ and jockin’.

That’s not me though.

Feel nothing, some days.

These countless plays of comedy and manners, city and planners, strife and romance.

I feel nothing, some days.

Some days, I feel nothing.