raileus | 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.