Life is a fine disease



Living is a fine disease.
A chronic one.
An uncomplaining chronicle.
Bends often are not ends.
Easy puzzles, though deep-hidden.

But why you try to mess? Hasten
your own thread by that biggest lie,
that repetitive error of love misplaced grossly on someone,
those unresponsive-unfitting pieces,
having unable to even unearth
answers to their shallow

Better  be self-obsessive immersive islands.
Pretty smiling self-centric negated weirdos.
Self-conceive to gain pleasures and the pain,
out of excessive indulging self-fucking.

Its the new way of selflessness.

Never desperately seek to reach out,
those undetermined freak outs
So don’t love anymore. Them.
Don’t try to explore. Them.

Inside them, you
see only the unseen.

A shrinking brain in rapidity.
A relaxing devouring cavity,
expanding  and well-padded,
with hard fat and insanity.

Nothing else you would see,
for you get digested soon after
your willful ingestion.

Living is a fine disease.
An uncomplicated one.
A freehand to self take.
Mine and yours.
Don’t be an easy prey fast-hunted by unworthy outer beasts.
Let the prideful self-ghost take you in.


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