The Lyre Of Orpheus.

Is this really what we've come to?

This

Stagnancy, this

Unending

Unyielding boredom?

I feel as cyclic as

The days

On and on and on and on

And on

A never ending

Pattern, some sort of

Loop that I can't quite seem to

Break

Repetitive

Redundant

And yet

All encompassing and all

Engrossing

I want

Out

But don't know where to

Start

It's not about a

Key

Anymore

It's not about

Baubles or

Precious things

Or loving

Or loathing

Or even

Dignity

It's just about

Change

It shouldn't be so

Hard

I'm not some sort of

Steel-based

Lithium-ion encased

Microprocessor

Only capable

Of so many functions,

Of so

Many

Actions

I'm a human

Or at least

The closest

Approximation

To human

That I can manage

Something in me has died. Some sort of spark or drive. Its completely gone.

You will never have another hero.

You will never have another chance.

You will never have anything.

You will never deserve

Anything.

Because every moment

Of every day

You do nothing.

Because you are weak and

Frail and

Incompetent and

So many other things and

No matter how hard you try to keep up this

Facade of confidence and

Purpose and

Importance

You know

Deep down that

The end isn't near. The end has already happened. My end has already happened. Swirling, unending chaos is all I know, and not in the way I prefer. Dead inside and nowhere to go, nothing to do. It came not with a bang, nor even a whisper. It was completely

Silent

Subtle

Deadly.

And then one day I simply realized that I'm already dead. And I cannot be resurrected. No one is here to mourn me; no one is even here to bury me.

Simply dead and

Decaying

In the corner, my insides

Rotting away

Like so much fruit, left and forgotten in a

Bowl on the table.

Anger seems to be all I have left. Anger I can muster. Towards everyone outside, towards all parts of myself inside.

Anger is purifying.

But you can't purify that which has already rotted away.

Just like that itch you can

Never

Quite

Reach

Mine is a soul that will never be saved. A torn sail never to be repaired, listless and aimless, lost at sea. Slowly rotting away, planks giving way under their own inability to stay whole. Water slowly seeping in through the cracks and the creaks, with no one there to plug it up again. No one to stop this listless, aimless ship from sinking into the ocean.

And oh how I hate the sea.