The hscMature

What the hsc makes us feel like

So the time has come,
My mind dull.
It often wanders like a void soul
So empty
Long past the times of the vibrant young mind.
All i live for is the dull beats of the heart,
Obnoxiously pounding every second.
Then i go to an internal rest, where one breathe nor a whisper can be heard.
The only sound known is gone.
Awakened by the sight of a cheetah ready to pounce on the seemingly lifeless sparrow.
I am void of motion,
Still as a human seeking death
Frozen, frozen, frozen.
Not in time though for it flows as that of rivers.
Done they are,
Fed up.
With the ever growing ever drowning ever lasting self doubt of losing it
The time is coming,
The heart racing as the man keeps on running until finally boom! Boom! Boom! KABOOM!
Till finally the man explodes!
Now it has finally happened, he lost it. Finally the sanity breaks. The destruction of the mind had started the youth no longer there.
But the mind of a man with a twisted eye and that of a heart with a beat as quick as a cheetahs leap.
Gone,
Gone,
Gone,
Gone,
Gone,
Gone is the mind of the innocent intelligent mind.
How many times does one say it?
Gone,
Gone,
Gone
The mind dead.
How many more fucking times?
Gone,
Dead,
Voidless,
Slain,
Slaughtered,
Murdered,
Tortured,
Lamented,
Massacred
And annihilated the young innocent mind.
The boy he was is no longer.
So frail the minds of us,
The tiny things let off big explosions.
Of the likes of WW3, the ones of the previous wars puny in comparison to the explosions set of in our fragile minds.
Done i am neither with love not life
But that of the endless dull pain
Which goes on as the clocks tick past.
The tears have fallen the sockets dry.
He screams!
I am done!
Finished!
Done!
Completed!
Not with life though.
Not with life, nor completed enough for the final stroke of the knife to take I.
Done with what than?
The endless tick of the clock?
The dull thuds of being hit?
The ever lasting hunger?
The more suicides, the more deaths?
For not one alone, he is done with but that of all.
He is Done
Done
Done
Done
Done
Done
For in the end the eye sockets are dry, for all the tears have been wept:
The lips void of sound.
The ears ever listening to that full best of the heart.
But I am not finished with life,
Nor completed enough for that final stroke.

The End

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