Deep, subtle, before my chest,
Lies a impractical hope,
Such as an impractical joke,
With no punch line to confess.
It sleeps embedded within its nest,
Like agoraphobic folk,
It remains anomalous because with others it cannot cope,
A joke to many, yet remains grim to me,
People think of its insanity as it flushes through my head,
My affliction loves disasters’ company,
And they both enjoy it as I dread,
Relaxing in indecision comfortably,
This “hope” broke open and now spreads,
Coursing through my veins consistently confronting me.
It has attached itself to emotion, spores, and disdain,
The hope that maybe one day the wolf will retract its teeth from my veins,
Take a few steps backwards to see what I became,
To truly see how pain can truly change the way the body strains,
A strange cartoon of a face as it continues to watch the blood drain,
An abomination, I know, that can’t be slain, right?
A man monster that always seems to turn the direction of the plight,
Still glib, while irrationality aches faintly behind his ribs,
With very little reason to live,
With very little nothings to give,
He gives what is left to take another breathe, each meaning less than the last,
Maybe the bite wasn’t so bad, lest he’ll pass,
Lest he’ll pass.