Perforate thy Bounderies

ometimes life seems to  be sedating every fiber of my soul. every breath numbs each of my every blood paths. when the day turns to night, the familiar sent of procastination embeds the betrayed field of the armory. each is grappling for the means of survival and breathing. poor are the ones who witnessed the replication of the great doom where people grieved why they were born. it is as f they wantedto gravitate in a world where the incarceration of our own soul is not part of the requirement. the taste of the grieving wind blows upon my face, suffocating me until i color my self like a corpse. i have coined myself the nuissance of my own plans—-worst i still can feel how the pain swallows and shuts my system down