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Regurgitated Hellfire.

As the ever-ambiguous ‘they’ say,
a house divided cannot stand.
Behold the duplex
back on his bruised knees,
wondering: could it be
that to find and take the cure
itself might be suicide?
Could it be
I am the true disease?

At last, I say:
That’s it. Fuck it.
I know bullshit when I smell it.

Put the foot down
to ground the sole.
Refuse to submit
to this hell hole
dug of the hopeless,
full of sick.
Sooner break a rib just
to bend down,
gnaw off my own dick.

This stops here.
I am more than this,
stronger than this.

High time I
show life no mercy,
for it’s never been
so kind to me.
The rise higher just
to drop me has been the only
vague semblance
of a reprieve.

Regurgitated hellfire.
Relax, reframe.

Nietzsche was right,
what fails to kill you builds strength;
what succeeds, though,
perhaps does so considerately,
however much it feels
like the opposite.

Forever recycling,
the soul is idling…

I want a life of passion,
ambition, lack of fear,
some semblance
of security, stability.
I want the fuck
out of here.

Life’s ups and downs
are just reps to build muscle.
Aches and pains:
common side-effects.

Never stalling,
always evolving.

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