________________

It was like sitting in a wheelchair in the midst of a marathon.
But who is to blame but me.
I tried to pluck flowers off a graveyard.

Trying to bloom,purity
I ended up on a pyre.

Though it was never my funeral.
I felt compassion like a storm.

I visited my friends,Tom,Harry and Dickens.
I tried to find happiness in theirs.
There was but withered memoirs.

I bore wounds like a man.
I let them tie my fingers and across my bust.
Sanguine rushed like a fountain and I let vultures feed off it.

I tried to dream but only then did I know I have none left.Maybe.

Choices were always a problem for you.....
- Opiate.