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There are seconds in the day that no one talks about,

Seconds that dwindle in the night, keeping you from your sleep.

And the beast speaks… 

The only people who can hear its horrific voice

Who find it so painful it are people like me.

This death rattle scream.

This is it's announcement

And if I must say,

Quite the grand opening and rather fitting.


Small things may shroud, and almost cover this lie you live,

You are happy, you suck it in, suck it up, 

Put on a good face and give everyone a good run.

Temporary fix. I thought about her seconds

Before she may have taken it.

And understood so very well,

But did not dare speak of this dark secret-we most embarrassingly share.


Seconds when your attempts to smile failed,

Your hands now covering your quivering chin

Moments from a nice long visit of every heart wrenching knees, giving in.

Everywhere you’ve been kind of places.


Seconds where everything you try to forget shreds every ounce

Of strength and crumbles and wall of denial.

If you were to count the seconds, they’d eventually add up to hours,

And these hours accumulated over time are the worst, most trying,

Most miserable, most out of your mind.

Begging to not feel this tonight, 

Get ready to negotiate with yourself for your own life, 

Most indescribable moments of your life.

Come in, and welcome, this is your own hell

Hang up your coat and put down your things.

I think you’ll be very unhappy here

The things you can’t forget, the things that you regret, the people you resent, 

The sorry, self-inflicted way that you pretend.


Life is just peaches and cream, except one thing.

Even if you have made peace within yourself, the memories seep in 

And amusingly begin to destroy what’s left.

And all you hear, these things would reduce 

Even the strongest of men to tears.


You shut your eyes heavily in an attempt to stop from drowning in misery

To hold back any sort of human you may still be and shut it away.

This is the moment in the day,I think about when I wake up

And the next night it too will come again 

As surely as the sun will rise and set on your life

Still in shambles and wanting to never wake

From the dreamy state you escape into.


Unhappiness begins to spread faster than an inferno,

You’re choking in your own throat and you wonder if you’re better off dead.

The days seem to come and go

And if you were me they’d seem to move rather slow 

And lead to nowhere,

Only back to chasing your own tail.

Your life is undefined, you are living but don’t know why.

You're running in circles wishing to be anything at all

Anything but yourself.

Your life flashes in your mind- your youth, your old age, your death, your soul, 

Where will it go, how long, too long, 

Impatience makes you panic, day in and day out. 

The way you wish to crush the days into

Tightly folded red paper parades and burn it all into smoke and vapor,

Till there’s nothing left.


If you don’t understand yet, you wish not to exist

And this place that you’re in keeps returning and reoccurring.

Flashes and memories burn into the folds of your brain, 

Mouths vomiting words without contemplating their effect

Or maybe they do and just don’t bother.

You don’t want to hear, like a child

You're whimpering, sniffling, as your hands are now pressed firmly to your ears.

It’s only  in your mind, ingrained and forever existing

Locked and sealed in time.

Reoccurrences like these, make it oh so tempting to slit your wrist,

For once you wish the moon would rise and catch fire,

The days would rapidly pass and when your fingers snap,

You'll be where you wish to be.

The place that stabs your heart and makes you

Remember just who and where you are and where and what you’ll never be.

Places you are forbidden from, look high and low

There are no bridges,

It’s simply impossible to reach.

It’s this feeling of no control over where you want to be 

And where you feel you need to go

What would make you happy, that makes you  die inside slowly

And brings the beast back to feed night after night. 

And in the deepest depths of night pitch black and plight,

You feel so certain if you don’t get this out and write it down,

You’ll surely burst from the inside out. 


So, it has been said many times I am very good at mycraft,

People observe, read, attempt to soak in and grasp.

They scratch their chins in confusion,

Left uncertain of what to make of this conclusion.

Yes it is true I am so very, very good at my craft,

But so unaware and un-benounced to the spectators.

Is this one personal hell of talent I neither want nor asked for?

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