Halls of the Dark Muse

Wasted Existence

I wish you would drive
the knife in
(really I do)
for you are right
I concur
what is the worth and point of your life?
Spending your days
in your dark rooms
hiding behind your veil of tears
you are wasting resources
producing nothing
other than your own misery.

So why hesitate?
your own demise
you have set yourself upon
feeding off the compassion
those who do not know better
are still deceived into giving you,
but you suck it up like a vacuum
(a black hole)
and turn it into yet more
despair and wallowing in the mire
of your own trash you self-crated.

Why linger still?
I will tie the noose,
load the gun
lay out the pills
if it will shut you up
for I have had enough
of your crying in my ear
of your complaints before your altar of despair
turning every positive into a negative.

They tell you
you are beautiful
and you accuse them of lies,
they tell you
you are gifted
and you sigh with your bitter eyes
they reach a hand out in kindness
and you turn aside
to crawl back inside and hide.

There is no further point
of your continued existence
you don't want to be encouraged
you seek only to discourage
sabotaging yourself
you wear everyone else out
and use that as another mark
of your withering victimhood
of your poor misused self.

You are your own abuser
and the rope you dangle is only a tease
the reason you still breathe
is because I know the secret
that you are in love with your pain,
you construct yourself as the center of attention
by being the miserable dejection,
you thrive upon the charity
your acts of chronic pity inspirer
upon the passing stranger.

You drink the misery like water
it has become your preferred state
to see the world only in black
with festering self-hate.

In this you take your
perverse delight.