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Sick.

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It's how I feel.
I'm sick of this town.
Sick of these people.
Sick of this life-style.
Sick of this world.
I'm sick of all I've done.
I'm sick of who I am.

I should be bedridden in this hate-filled illness.
Nothing could truly be beautiful in these retched lands.
My music would sound so much sweeter in a far-off city.
My writing would read so much stronger in the distance.
My voice would power through many more souls.

I'm slowly disintegrating.
Swiftly dissipating.
This disease is torchering me.
Bringing me down.
This hate; this longing.
All adding up to my failures.
Taking me down a never-ending tunnel.
I am ready to succumb.

There's no turning back.
There's only running forward.
There's only one way of escaping the disease of a failed life.
Only one way to find happiness.
Make the change.
Be the power.
Do everything in my will to survive.





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