Karma's got me in a chokehold, and I'm about to fight back. But now I'm caught in a battle with myself with no sign of relief. Now the air has drifted out of my lungs and I'm floating on a comatose breath. I can see everything before my eyes, but there's nothing I can touch. Nothing but a shattered shiver and a crumbling cry resonates from my withered hands.
My cracked voice shakes out one last effort before evading me forever. It's a little slice of what I deserve, unable to defend myself or destroy the chains that bind me. I am an executioner of worlds, a swallower of dreams, and a butcher of loves. These sinned hands may smother out the lives of my enemies but know not of the aches the others feel in their hearts.
Three strikes and you're out, well, this must be my fifth offense. Perhaps a sixth or ninth. I've lost track of all the crimes of which my conscience does not know. Maybe it will take a hailstorm or a hellhound to hammer me into submission. I don't know, but I've got myself a problem here: to rouse my heart and inflate my lungs. Maybe I'm regretting my decisions, or maybe I'm just conspiring my next plan of action.
You are a hell of a lot better at writing than I am. I hope you finish that novel you'll never finish, because I want to read it if it doesn't never get finished.
ReplyDeleteAgh, I hope I can finish it. Dx I just hope I can hold onto this motivation.
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