Entertaining the child

There's absolutely no benefit in me dreaming of anything, wanting anything, or complaining about what I don't have, nor the treatment inflicted upon me.
My outcries change nothing.

Still I suppose I can't help but entertain myself sometimes with magical creations of my mind, the idea of being wisked away to another world, or having magical powers, or going on an amazing adventure with some odd ball friends, perhaps a wizard.

Moments however small where I entertain my inner child, a child alone, sad, and missing.

The fool

Terminal / Endless night.

I look inwards again into that dark sea that is myself, sitting on a throne, this time holding two golden cups.
One for my sorrow, and another for my hate.
One turns to pain, as the other turns to anger, my disdain for my existence.

I pour each one out every night, but they just fill up again by the next morning.
An endless fountain of pain.
It is as if I am tattooed on the inside of my skin, as if I am marked, or within my bones perhaps, and I cannot escape it.

As though it is within me like my blood,
a crushing sickness running through me like a cancer.
I sit and I watch it slowly destroy me.
Taking away any good memories I had left.
Taking away my smile, killing my inner child.
Not one person asked for this death,
not one would die this way.

I question everything now, for what human beings have the power to create such suffering on their own?
And surely life cannot create these complexities on its own.

I feel as if I am being handed over to this thing, like someone or something wants me, something is taking me, calling me, I feel consumed by it, eaten by it.
It claims my life, my hands are tied.
There is no more daydreams, for there are no more days.