It feeds off you,
breaking you,
decaying your once whole being.

What a joke.

A sad joke that was once saw as a jolt became more.

A fear that sucks you dead,
like a bug,
which rested on your eye to bother the nerves.

Looking back:
with a blank face,
empty most likely;
but hungry just as all the rest,
of that fear that grips.

That grip, strong,
bruising the flesh,
to what only those of the uncaring could do.

Shout of broken cry,
praying it will end and fast.

Never will anyone,
even those who do pray for being that relies solely in the mind.

Call it a mist,
of a being that was made to help,
does nothing or in other words . . .

Say it was the design of the roads made by petty people,
who at times can’t do anything,

Even those who think they can know that’s a lie,
even for just a moment,
to better themselves.

For again,
the fear feeds off all,
taking every ounce of life,
a bullet to the head could sum that up,
just fine.

The fear doesn’t have to be real,
what is a weakness is a weakness,
in breaking the body,
to remain humane.

Speaking words of justice that causing pain to others solves everything,
than sadly,
a point is missing.

Far deeper that what a rusty marble knife to the eye downward to the heart,
that exits the lung on sheer,
dumb luck that if even that is a possible fact.

How feeble these minds are,
scared to face everything,
but strong enough to send fear,
with no real reason to do so . . .

Fake the love,
the weak,
the strong,
in hopes to live in short time on a long await death,
for be it that,
which is what fear is,
and it isn’t.

Fake the fear or be it,
in regards of others,
they matter only enough . . .

That has no real meaning,
just know it’s there to take or leave be,
for again,
the fear.

Fake fear,
come as it,
or lack of never becoming as it,
and just fester as thee.

to only,
if only,
it matters.

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