The Loneliness Project
the disease By megan Grace
The heavens pour and shatter
Cold, biting and glacial.
Minute droplets that batter:
They are tears from the angels.
Encircling me is beatitude:
Fresh apples on the tree,
But here I am alone,
Like I am thrown under the sea.
Discarded are the blissful childhood retrospectives.
Replaced with those of affliction and anxiety.
Overcome with red self-laceration
From the blade of today’s society.
The monsters residing in my head:
Parasites controlling my deepest mind;
Dominant Dictators in a war,
Deaf, dying and blind.
This falling liquid, seen as bothersome,
But for the isolated one;
It is a pathetic excuse to be touched,
When no other affection is witnessed or done.
Lonesome I stand,
Thinking about the past:
This perception doesn’t last.
The deluge washes away my optimism,
Alienation my only purpose,
My heartache, a raging fire.
I plunge into my pocket
And uncover the lustrous blade.
I pierce my ghostly flesh
But this time, the agony stays.
Existing is exhausting,
Slumber is no longer an escape,
The temptation to slaughter
Overcomes like a grim’s melanoid cape.
I cannot exist without accompany,
I slide it along my throat.
The ruby falls like a tap:
On the screams of strangers, I choke.
This disease is too strong.
My imitated smile, erroneous:
The end of mankind,
Will be this disease called loneliness.
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