Whisper me something evil, something dread. Anything to shake the sleeper in my head. The slumber is agony, the slumber is death. My aching spirit can never rest.
Who among you is sane? The first to rise is fastest to fall. We build our minds upon the lies of sanity, none are true. Trueth is logic and logic is the wall barring our way to the garden of dreams.
We will never be free, least in our concious minds. All I have in me is a madman's rant, a imbecilic mumbling, a fools poem.
Insomnia gnaws at me like vermin to a corpse. To much flow of mental electricity has left me spent, yet still smoldering under a glowing night sky. To comfort my self in this time of creeping dread, this slothful aggitation. I read excerpts from Mary Shelly's Frankenstein.
The tale is so familiar to all, yet so alien to read. I connect with the sadness of creations gone astray. The melancholy in twisted dreams. I dreamt of amazing things the past few nights. I dreamt of having the powers of a god, while barring the frailities of a mortal man. The longing of things that lie beyond mere feats of prowes.
Irony to see and feel a touch of another yet there is no touch. In my dreams I can even smell the scents of the breeze, the stench of fear, and the perfume of a fictional lover.
I feel haunted, empty....... I remember the eyes; But never the face. The face that I wonder if anyone in this world bears. Not physical, But the face of the things that lie beyond.
The fever is not prevailent, the symptoms absent. But the illness still lingers. Ha, Here I still drone on about the phylosiphies of the simplton that is I. I know my strengths and weaknesses, Yet it is the later of the two that weighs my stride. Burdens my spirit.
Fragments of knowledge spewed forth unto nothing. The quiet of the night is all the company I have been bestowed this evening. Maybe it's all that I deserve......... all I could handle.
Who among you is sane? The first to rise is fastest to fall. We build our minds upon the lies of sanity, none are true. Trueth is logic and logic is the wall barring our way to the garden of dreams.
We will never be free, least in our concious minds. All I have in me is a madman's rant, a imbecilic mumbling, a fools poem.
Insomnia gnaws at me like vermin to a corpse. To much flow of mental electricity has left me spent, yet still smoldering under a glowing night sky. To comfort my self in this time of creeping dread, this slothful aggitation. I read excerpts from Mary Shelly's Frankenstein.
The tale is so familiar to all, yet so alien to read. I connect with the sadness of creations gone astray. The melancholy in twisted dreams. I dreamt of amazing things the past few nights. I dreamt of having the powers of a god, while barring the frailities of a mortal man. The longing of things that lie beyond mere feats of prowes.
Irony to see and feel a touch of another yet there is no touch. In my dreams I can even smell the scents of the breeze, the stench of fear, and the perfume of a fictional lover.
I feel haunted, empty....... I remember the eyes; But never the face. The face that I wonder if anyone in this world bears. Not physical, But the face of the things that lie beyond.
The fever is not prevailent, the symptoms absent. But the illness still lingers. Ha, Here I still drone on about the phylosiphies of the simplton that is I. I know my strengths and weaknesses, Yet it is the later of the two that weighs my stride. Burdens my spirit.
Fragments of knowledge spewed forth unto nothing. The quiet of the night is all the company I have been bestowed this evening. Maybe it's all that I deserve......... all I could handle.