The descent beckons,
as I stood on the edge
making a pledge to the eternal night
by singing of chaos.
Igniting a desire to fall,
so I listened to the call.
Didn't try to prevent it.
I gave my consent to the torment
and ventured down the dark descent,
plummeting into the abyss,
searching for bliss.
Knowing the dangers but not caring.
And I remembered them saying,
that the descent into Hell is easy.
And they were right.
For there was no fight,
only a downwards flight.
And as I fell,
I was glad that the descent did beckoned.

A yellow ladybird waiting for the light to turn red.
Patiently awaiting what's to come.

She knows better than to make rude gestures at the light.
It won't make it change any quicker.

She knows she can spend her time better than being an angst-ridden insect cynically hating phonies.

It's true patience is a virtue
and she sticks by this principle.
No matter what they say,
a principle's a principle.

The yellow ladybird knows a lot of things.
A delightful delinquent who enjoys reading eloquent literature
and can tell you who painted that pretty picture.

But she is still just a yellow ladybird.
Still only learning how to operate in this world.

But when the light turns red, then she will know.
Know more than she does now.

Soon the yellow ladybird will see the light, be it the light she would've liked or not, I can not say.

Only she can decide if the waiting was worth it.
And for her poor soul, I hope it was.

Trapped in this story.
Repeated history,
that's more misery than mystery.
Perhaps I'll leave this crap one day
Refuse to stay and go away,
but it wouldn't be long
before I'd collapse and relapses back into it all.
Enthralled in the fresh mesh,
across my rotten flesh.
Unable to even crawl,
as it sprawls around me
and develops me into something grotesque.
Against my best protest,
ignoring my distress,
until I become something I detest.
And all though this picturesque depiction of my depression
may seem extreme, like a bad dream
In reality it stems from a belief
that nothing ever gleams in darkness.
Regardless of what they say, darkness is artless.
Nothing more than a rotting carcass.
Harmless and heartless but not homeless,
because it's the same carcass in every ******* story in this never ending circle.
The only real consistency in the ever changing story.
Me,
internally rotting away for an eternity.
Trapped in this story.

The same old, same old
A story retold
with different settings each time
but ultimately identical
each story indistinguishable
so I'm skeptical
when you say this time will be different
because each time it's the same crime
anger and bitterness entwined
making a swine of you
and I'm pass the point of wanting to rewind
this story does not have a linear start to finish
But rather a never never ending circle
a pattern stuck on repeat
recycling itself on to its circular life
the external of the circle may change but the internal is still the same infernal circle.
immortal in its own way.
yesterday's sad melody,
with new ornamentation
but same motif throughout.
Ergo,
the same sorrow that swallows me up so I may wallow in this hollow feeling,
feasting like a beast on the self pity
that's festering away in the ruins of my broken mind like an unnatural disaster.
and I don't want a plaster to fix it
cause as soon as I put it on it'd only be ripped off again.
Useless and pointless against the repetition of unending pain
the same old, same old