Melancholy

With sweet whispers the darkness beckons me, methodically appealing to the deep sorrow of my tragedy. It says, I can take away the pain if you allow me. I embrace the bitter taste of misery to deaden the unforgiving sting of its potency. I now live in my own, but I was born of my mother’s agony. Resentment is the blood of my family, so I do not forgive easily. Through vengeful eyes I see my enemies. I dream no more of love — my nightmare resumes when I awaken; sitting on the edge of my bed I gaze aimlessly at nothing, and I am reminded that I am a man forsaken. Oh, heavenly father, look at what torment has taken. It seeks to utterly decimate me and leave me irreparably broken. I have become an apostate of love’s religion. In my state of affliction I have come to questions my past decisions. The man in the mirror swears at me under his breath; I stare at him for several minutes contemplating the depth of his sentiment. I scream like a madman within four walls to purge at least a small portion of the pain. Tiring myself out, I sit drenched in perspiration with tempered melancholy, and I am tranquil again. 

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