I purge paint— a brush thrust down my throat
Searching for my soul. O, a soul—
There must be me down the depths
There somewhere— but I find
Despairingly, not I rest in control.
As nothing does not sore as a heart can reak
I have been drowned in agony and ache.
I survey my realm, for relief, comfort—
But lay solely drunkened pain and hollow joy;
Can we commiserate?
Every time I fall apart, I fail to fall together again—
I peruse the damned I know so well.
Nothing but an afterthought,
Myself I call ‘Catastrophe’—
For I am ever sinking in my own personal Hell.