What I am about to describe to those who would read it:
The feeling of being crushed by a hope which rises from within, lighter than a strand of hair, full of promise and without a care,
Before its ascending weight turns to lead and forces it to relegate,
Falling back down onto one’s chest as a manifestation of despair.
—
I feel a great smouldering weight, filling my lungs with smoke, pinning me down with its bitter, heavy hate.
I feel as though I’m suffocating. The more I struggle, the more I suffocate.
My suffering, it exacerbates.
The more it hurts, the greater a fury it exasperates.
I shove at it wildly, desperately. The more I fail the greater the urge to hate,
All those who had done me no wrong, all those who emerged to relate,
All those who had raved of talent and wished to see me elevate.
They weren’t aware,
Placed in me was a hope translated into despair,
For my ability did not escalate,
It was the expectation that began to levitate.
Thus, I cursed at them from my corrupt kingdom of desolate and ruined fate,
That is a realisation I’ve been forced to confront of late,
The anguish in my chest it cannot placate,
Though my new-found knowledge strikes flames,
I’m left without reason to blame.
The truth has melted away that which alleviates:
A frozen heart beneath my chest, a protectorate,
Shielded by ice to leave me in a lonely state.
What remains is a furnace of pain,
Now, the search for a way to lift this blazing weight of shame.
I’m Sick.
Then, suddenly, as though possessed by a different being, a foreign entity,
An unholy union of antipathy and clarity,
It dawns on me in destructive harmony,
Fuck poetry.
Fuck conceit, the meek, and “woe is meâ€.
Let the flame burn,
Until I find a route with no return.
When the time arrives,
In a forgotten land with no human lives,
I’ll put it out south of the pole, in a frozen hole,
with inflammable liquid like alcohol.
I’m Cured.