Decay of the Mind

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Decay of the Mind

To tear this flesh apart would cause me no pain, compared to that which I felt when you retreated from my life. To rid these thoughts, plaguing my mind, would bring me nothing but peace. The moment I realized you would not be mine I died inside. There is no explanation for the descent of my soul, other than that, which you offered me, kept me afloat. I find myself sitting restlessly in the dark, amongst the tattered remains of what was once my happiness…a happiness that I offered you. I gave you my all. I blissfully waited for you, with arms wide open, as I bore to you my soul. Now, not even with every ounce of my being, can I fill the gaping wound that you left to bleed dry. So, here I remain, the shell of the man that once was…silent…alone…gone. Venomous are these thoughts, which spear their way through the shallow, disease riddled, ruins of that which once represented a peaceful mind. My soul...the shredded, shapeless remnant of what it was before. This body has become a meaningless shell, devoid of purpose, hope and aspiration. My entire world has been stripped of emotion. I realize that I am now destined to wander this filth-encrusted wasteland...utterly...alone. As, this may have once saddened me; I now see it as the only way. To many lives have been tainted by the ever plaguing presence that which I have brought upon them. Spoiling their minds with the infectious filth spewing forth from an otherwise, forked tongue. Many have fallen in the wake of pestilence contained here within. No longer shall I seek the frivolous feeling of acceptance. No longer shall I be bothered by idiotic ruse you've come to call love. The carnivorous retch, festering in my, cold, dead heart has led me astray for the last time. It was written that, "hell hath no fury like a woman scorned". Well I have bittersweet news for you all...hell hath no fury like a man apart!

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Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

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