[ WP ] If I died in this moment , I would not regret how I spent the last ten minutes .

What misery it is to lose the ability to pen verses that make the lexicon, my lexicon, humble to be written upon paper. The depression that once existed to create the perfect poem, gone. What misery it is to have the words fail to come to fruition when the mind no longer posses the pain to pen the magnificent tales of the human mind. The dilemma that will consume the mind when my words fail my imagination as I struggle for just the write mood. What misery when the alcohol fails my mind, the moment ruined by my contempt to find the words, when, in reality they rest on the precipitous migraine of what used to be. I used to cry at my own misery as the words flowed from my hands onto paper. Now my body struggles with the alcohol to find the right words to create my masterpiece which eludes me. 
 
 The saga that never began tonight, the problem without the solution, the pain that can not be conveyed, everything has been wrote before. On the day my mind breaks, I just pray... That the words will come once more. Late at night, we all think about life back in the world, as it used to be. 
 
 Pray for me and all my sins, are you proud? Ashamed of yourself? You will never know the man that kills yourself. Because, you, you will never accept the fact that... 
 
 You hate everything that you are. Fuck this life...
