My Illness

12:01 a.m.
Sick.So sick.
My heart is rotting black to the core
for unknown sins.
Beads of persperation line my forhead
Like tiny obedient crystals.
They wait
for something
for nothing
for everything and fate.

1:15 a.m.
Writhing around, hot, twisted sheets
bind me to my burning bed.
My gateway to hell.
My own personal gateway, thanks just the same.
Head throbbing, mouth dry
but my muscles won't cooperate with my insane urge
to drink.

2:23 a.m.
Faces peering, voices floating
Everthing is so detached.
Crying blood for my poor lost soul
(what did it ever do?).
Why am I being pulled apart, like bread
am I so easy to digest?

5:46 a.m.
Sick. So sick.
The laughing voices are fading.
So is the light.

Why do I feel like this?

Because my being is completely ill, ill with the concept of reality.