This rock has been beaten to achieve beauty, they say beauty from pain.
Dud:
A device, person, or enterprise that proves to be a failure.
What then? Strive?
Fruitless agony proves to be a personal attribute.
Accepted as I am, is truth.
But what good is a plant that never blooms, its sad and weak appendages seek, and seem to be ever short of finding.
The fight snuffed.
The ache ever present, never ceasing, envelopes.
Desire stripped.
Mind races, but to no solution.
To be alone...the sweet surrender, and prison, all in one.
Smiles stand proud to mask the burning void. This muscle becoming more and more uncomfortably weak despite grand effort.
Wrap around me.
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