This isn’t life;
This is death.
I am a corpse masquerading,
Feigning feelings I do not possess.
Inside, I am a wintry wasteland,
Perhaps at first attractive,
But caustic and moribund when the charm evaporates.
Another wave crashes,
Another force pins me down,
Holding me under,
Watching me struggle for air in a sea of despair.
I yearn for the surface—
To see the sky as it is—
Not refracted and darkened by this manufactured poison.
In the corner of the world’s consciousness I subsist,
Wondering in throes and lamentation
What life is like in the center.
Can it be these smiles are more than façades?
Is the trilling laughter sincere,
Or is the rest of the world a portrait,
As lifeless and desperate as I,
The shadow of existence?
Truly, this is the difference
Between mere existence
And actual living.
To cross the threshold,
The gates of Hades,
And breathe once more.