Because your mind has grown mold,
crusted with ferment
Your soul has grown cold,
with pus coming from the edges.
The parasitic organism living in your optic nerve,
eats away at what you see,
replacing what’s real with visions.

Your lungs fill with a demonic, acidic liquid,
It makes it hard to inhale,
and decaying ashes of the remains of your lungs
resemble the color of tar,
as they flake off, dissolving into nothing.

Your depression has caused a code-red quarantine in your soul’s body,
staggering steps, tripping and falling again and again.
Even though there is nothing physically wrong with you, you are internally rotting.
Your joints are rusting to the point where they reject the oil that would fix them.
Only you see the problem, so no one is going to help.
You bottle it up.
You become a line worker in a factory that produces nothing but sad and eerie feelings, bottles it up, and ships it to nowhere but to another part of you.
You can’t find a place for all these bottles, and you start throwing away your issues subconsciously.
Memory after memory, all fading into dust until all the bottles end up gone and you have forgotten who you are,
what you were supposed to remember,
and that you were supposed to remember.
You are a blank sheet of paper,
and easily draw a fake smile on yourself.
The smile is wobbly and out of place,
something like a bunch of mismatched puzzles.
The crayon as you put it to paper feels like child’s work.
But you don’t know why you are smiling.
Living forever in agony that you don’t even know about yourself.
That must be “the proper” way to live,
because you can’t remember any other way.