Your Fucking Bullshit

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Long hours and a few dying flowers ...
It's all about us, isn't it? All the rights and wrongs don't matter the least when she's there. While enjoying or seeming to enjoy the very moments of our li(v)es, we all slowly decay. It looks as if something inside is crooked down to its every root, being upheld by a void that however we try just can't seem to be filled. Meanwhile, a sense that I don't know how to exactly describe appears. It's a simultaneous process of death and life. Here, I am stuck. Let's call it YFB, your fucking bullshit. It never leaves me to rest. Every fucking time, it takes a different form and then crawls up and around the tree of my life, leading me to a wasteland of every possible and impossible thought. One fun part of it is that it's got no core, no point of focus. The strikes are brought down in a disorderly manner; however, they grow in power and fondness by each second. Now, you may think that it only causes me to experience a great deal of pain, but it's far greater than that. It gives me life.

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