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:

Nostalgia, prosperity,

This perception doesn’t last.

The deluge washes away my optimism,

Realization transpires.

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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