I Changed the Title of This One To Avoid the Inevitable

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Is it worth it to be elegant? Or is it better to be frank? The mysteries of existence elude even the most enlightened, but vibrance is absent more often than it ever is present.

Darts on the board, axes to the bullseye, and bullets in the target. It isn't ignorance—it's malice. The illusion is broken, the imitation will find its other and the rest have sipped their fill. Dust to dust and ashes to ashes. Just fuck off.

Philosophy is dead, blood is venom, amor languorem, and friends are fatal. Cruel and unusual, fitting from beginning to the much-desired end.

No more pretending. Snakes form the noose around the neck, knives make their home in the back, and every spoken word is a lie that fails to lengthen the nose but succeeds at shortening the lifespan.

Sanctuary is a joke told by a comedian with a razorblade tongue and a pocketful of pills.

The bleeding will never stop, but don't follow the trail. Crawl into his bed, nestle into her arms, and revel in their company. Laugh, love, and take your nap with a 32-watt smile or a 28-indented pink sickle. More genuine words have never been written.

The chest is closed. There was never any gold, but the spoils so richly craved by the eyes of the greedy will be denied. That's okay, they never actually wanted it anyway. Pathetic thieves just like to play pretend as they caress their reflection in the mirror they can't live without.

The tears have dried up and hate has gone extinct. The barren wasteland that remains is a playground for the hyenas that fancy themselves sheep for the shepherd.

The crutch is broken, but the patient can walk just fine.

Another analogy, another slit wrist. Red ink for the next failed poem.

But the sun will rise again and again until the day it finally burns out.

Another universe will provide the setting for the next grand tale of misery. May the protagonist grip their quill with conviction and swallow the pearls of infinity before the sands smother their sheets.


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