To Whom It May Concern
To Whom It May Concern.
I am paralyzed by my urn.
I am encapsulated by my demons.
Fluent in the language they're speaking.
There they are, ever-present and distinct.
I can see them, and I'm not required to blink.
What can I do, what salvation to take.
Where can I go, have I earned a break?
I feel as though I deserve my strife.
I feel I am the blade, I am the knife.
If this is true, if I control my tumult.
Why don't I change, or seek a different result.
Pain is my companion, I love it so much.
I have grown to accept its familiar touch.
Now that I have determined my role is prominent,
I will do all I can to ease my torment.
Or perhaps I will maintain, I will not deviate.
I, however, have accepted my fate.
I will travel in the dark, alone and confined.
Screaming and yelling, a pantomime.