No gold really is a treasure.
No love is true love forever.
No life lasts longer than it’s measure,
No dark hour gives an ounce of pleasure.
You are all alone, and will be,
as long as you believe that you can win,
and every silent victory is nothing
but deception held lovingly within.
—That’s what you say, right?—
—the lie. It’s where the beautiful part ends—
Now listen: we all die alone anyway;
—I can’t do truth without making it… clumsy—
we lose in the end, even if we win;
Our faith only means anything if—only
if—it means that we don’t give in.
fucking placeholders, but it’s all symbolic. Symbols keep you alive.
forsake despair! and all it’s hateful leisure,
Every pleasing ounce of blackened treasure,
every long lost love that lasts forever.
the death of agency is your doom — and a lie.
—this might seem familiar—
your life is bleak, and getting bleaker.
if you let it, you’ll get weaker;
every second, spent regretting
the last one.
Every knife a danger, like the last one.
maybe the last one.
—me too—
this one is the last one, if I can make it.
if I can help it, I will hold my true
golden treasure. My love that may
yet last a while, if not forever.
my life that goes on until I die
but not by my own hand.
my pain—my lovely pain—
Is not my friend, but my enemy,
my foil in this romance
of soul and grace.
—side with the angels—
I will move beyond despair;
but not without it.
I will strive to fail with dignity,
live to survive,
spit in the eye of death,
touch my scars.
I have been so ugly, I repulse myself;
I have been so beautiful, like narcissus
At the pond, I have like a candle
killed so many butterflies.
I will not be the last casualty of my
small pride.
instead, I will draw the line
at my archaic regrets,
And seek ever to be
the love that I wish for
in my deepest recess.
Who have I hurt more than myself?
—I wanted to make my wrist a picture of my soul—
who am I? A reflection, a simulacrum,
of the true hope.
—but no, the hope is the image made in my own shape—
let these tireless thoughts cease.
I resolve to be.