Existence

My brain is wrought with morbid beings,
As her voice is that of the same as nails upon a chalkboard.
She talks with slow humdrum words,
Without punctuation or reprise,
Pauses are not of length to survive.
The torture within my mind,
Contemplating the departure of my body through the glass frame,
Is not out of this world,
Nonetheless, merely a fantasy that is reality.
It no longer signifies that matter is no more.
Science, as real and accurate as it may be,
Is nothing more than boredom filled with insanity.
Nails upon chalkboards,
Screaming minds upon the time of sanity disappearing in rhyme
Minds, bodies of tortured matter in time
Do we?
Yes, it is death that comes; it is the end that is near.
Time has come, cast the bodies into the fire, showing no more the pain in which we survive
The hate, the sin of our lives
Let it all go.
Toss us into the world of bile and fire.
You!
Me!
Nothing!


Christopher Chapman © 2012