blind illness

How can we ever hope to know
That which is unknowable?
The thing we see, the flames
Coming from beneath the floor.
The floor which you know is moving,
To its ultimate end.

Society does not see it acceptable
To allow one’s self to die,
But it encourages partial deaths.
Goes so far that food, movement and escape
Are outlawed.

How can one see when
The past acts as a plague?
Nothing left but time spent
Dancing with rotten corpse
And broken skeletons.
With wishers bone held high
In a sick mind.

The only one that knows what
The world really is and its workings.
Bodily function deemed to be
all that is wrong.
Instincts are all that should govern everything.
But instincts only govern
Souls and minds.

The insides of average contain
A few suicides.
Innards ravaged but unnoticed.
The un-average?
Well, near total destruction
And fully aware of it.

Can find no worth,
But forced a worth.
“you do this to hurt me”
“it’s not real”
“you make yourself think that”
On and on it goes.
Worse poisons than the real one.
But none see that,
To thine eyes it is impossible.

Sickness sweeping, seeping and seeking.
A damnation where the only salvation
Is a despicable, insane crime.
Thoughts swirl daily and constant
Of both the sickness and the possible
Yet horrible cure.

Hear now of what before now see.
Not anchored to the ground,
Mind slips, yearns take over once more.
Hide, for if you are seen
Your symptoms witnessed, You shall be labeled
a liar, a fake, an attention seeker.
“your fault”
“it would go away if you stopped pretending”
“your own doing silly girl”
How to continue?

None shall understand,
They shall come to their conclusions based on,
What they know.
But they know not of what I speak of,
For it is to hidden to ever reach their ears.
Sad is the story, this proclamation, sanity unsound.

The beating comes with laughter
If they know, if they find.
No home left, everything stolen away.
All because of a “problem”
That’s really a disease of the body,
That sickens the mind.
Even the highest would disregard this.
For to them it is insanity at its worst
And its finest.
When in truth it is far more logical,
And knows it is true.

All who bear the weight as I do,
Understand its burden is the heaviest of all.
Even more to never speak a
Mutterunce of it.

A rose for the dead, a dagger for the damned.
Must the healthy and average besmirch?
Writing in shaking hands,
Panting breath,
And woozy stomach.
Really nothing much,
Worse yet to come.

Can one not grasp what is
Told in voice,
Written in letters,
And shown in motion?
The whispers of weakness,
The shakiness of cursive,
The writhing of flesh.

All alone are the sick suffers
Of this sickness.
That can never be uttered,
That can never be told,
That can never be shown.
These sick are the strongest,
But all others scream weak.

Walk on minute in this life,
You would not fail to wish it stop
And snuff out the light.
Those who speak it not true
Do not know of its effect.
“oh gods the thirst is unbearable”

Continue with your day,
Give these words not a thought.
But when the truth is found,
This revealed true.
You, they, average,
Will know you had known.
But played the role of
Tormentor, blamer and bystander.

Leave these writings now,
Upon your table, your mind.
They know they’ll never return.