If my life was a mere ink blot, I wonder what they'd all see.
Right now, I have more problems than I can deal with at one time.
Fighting off one demon, while roughly 4 others take up the rear.
I hope I'm not rendered helpless, but the loneliness I feel, the pain...
It's overbearing.
I can't simply numb it mentally, because it is to much to sweep under the carpet.
Big enough to crowd my vision to where I see nothing else.
Quite simply small enough for outer people to either ignore, or miss all together.
I'm drowning in my own blood, it seems.
Though I do not write in ink, now, I have injected myself with the pen so that I may bleed lyrics and poems.
My cynical veiw tortures me like no other.
The predecessor, the one who once lived in my mind, has nearly vanished.
My joyful self, almost gone with the wind.
In the purgatory we call life, I await the day when my mind has endured enough.
The strain is great.
I grow weary.
I have been at this for some time now.
This life is hard to manage.
