Wrote it in my head while lying on my bed. Couldn't sleep, as usual.
Title: Lying On My Bed
That night I cried for tarnishing persecution.
How fallacious words held more recognition.
The threadbare seams slit with indecision,
Plummeting a mannequin with derision.
A solitary trickle leaked infinite mortifications.
The four white walls turned their heads with compulsion.
Soaked sheets and pensive pillows pondered with appreciation,
Sorrowing pools surged, preoccupied with perfection.
The carcass held intact with typical immortalization,
Struggling to hold together the elicitation of motivation,
The painful realization of panic and compunction,
The useless aspiration of a second chance creation,
The frustrations of vanished hope and incessant indecisions.
In the strangulation of devilish darkness haunting my afflictions,
Silence smothered me sound asleep with the sweetest of suffocations.
Anyway, here's the most beautiful and truly touching qoute I have ever come across:
I have found the paradox that if I love until it hurts, then there is no hurt, but only more love.