It’s not despair, what is it.
It’s not fear, or hate, or guilt.
It’s not exhaustion, though I feel it…
What is it…
This tingle in my neck right where my throat descends
This mingle in my mind right where my thinking ends…
what is it…
it drives me to desperation
to lashout, to strike like a snake…
to curse our fates, and bless it-
that all men are mortal…
that all of us die…
that no one is exempt from the end of their life.
What is it…
Jealousy doesn’t strike true, nor selfish greed or pride…
what is this feeling I’m wrestling…
as it uncoils deep inside?
I can feel the storm, it’s gathering, a typhoon with winds that howl…
if I don’t find the source of it…
what is it…
the source of my hatefilled eyes, the depth of my piercing scowl…
what is it that made me despise the whole of everything…
took taste from my mouth, scent from my nose, sight from eyes…

ah.
there it is.

self pity

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