The Escape

Chained spirit

You cloud your life with distraction
To eschew a day of facing the mirror,
Standing up to face reality,
And asking yourself, “How did I get here?”
Drowning in waste and stagnation
Has no appeal in your eyes,
But you acquiesce to them all the same,
Constraining your spirit in bottles and paper,
Chaining your potential to a flame that falters,
Pushing through each day, just going through the motions.

This is what hell feels like:
Watching you squander everything you have,
All the value and light your existence is worth,
Surrounding yourself with trifles to enable you
To forget the apocalypse you survived.
But you are alive, and too strong to be crushed
By corporeal forces or emotional demons,
And yet when you look in the mirror
You don’t see past the terror of the cataclysm
That shook your world and shattered your foundation;
Vapid, you turn to killing yourself again
So that you don’t live, but merely exist,
And ensure your spirit remains bound to the rock
And, in Promethean fashion, are tortured anew each day.

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  1. …each and every day.


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