Medicate

So it seems in the melodious debauchery of existence that human beings are ill-equipped to handle the concept of being. As years fall to sunset simmers of oblivion, calenders litter the trash bins with crumpled days and weeks, life(our lives), mutates sickeningly into an affliction. Headlong we rush towards our graves, digging with unrestrained ferocity through the miasma of depression, failure, shortcomings, and hope's terminal illness, to arrive at the dawn holding our own executioner's blade. Our solution, the gateway to salvation; the pristine hope of self-reclamation lies in coping via half-lives. Medicate.

Doping up to dim down the pain of suffering, the burden of being flesh and blood--it is an acquiescence to weakness. Countless healthy hearts pump regardless of the civil war raging within our bodies; brain's subterfuge to end it all, hands the guilty assassins, and traitorous eyes the uncaring spectators. It's all mental nausea. A diarrhea of emotion runs errant amongst souls and minds unable to realize the beauty of pain--of life. So give it all up, wave the white flag of defeat and medicate for you, for me, for the eternal beauty you refuse to see because life has the ability to be atrociously burdensome, in return for awarding you for existing in the crisis- running the gamut of life.

As each day brings with it the pain of knowledge and scars of experience, we are faced with the one true burden of humanity; logic. Through logic and reason we've evolved into a species unto ourselves, capable of boundless wonders and treacherous evils, yet a greatness none the less. Unlike the rest of Gaea's children, we've found the key to rewire the self preservation mechanism built within us all, and in turn embrace it with the ardency of a lover's embrace. Latching on to every excuse to rid ourselves with the task of breathing we've delved into new ways of death dealing, and thus have become exceedingly efficient at crafting our own extinction. A medley of glorious means await those that choose to leave behind it all, and in that final breath of air sweeter than paper millions can ever fauxly compare, perhaps you will realize that the cold dirt of mother earth puts a close on your forever, and your fading hologram will pass from earth as a unknown known; a contradiction of existence.

Leaving these lines with all that care, the true believers and livers of life. Rise up from the muck bayous of our minds, the crafty trickster that turns all life's problems into Atlas burdens. Realize that within us all is the capability to live as we are, for ourselves and none other, to be the epitome of our hopes and dreams, and in turn succeed in a way of life we could only ever want to exist in. Sing the song of your sorrows, embrace the gory mishaps the sunrise brings, but most importantly, realize the miracle of your existence and never for one heartbeat take it for anything less than truest beauty this world will ever see.