what a mangled mess we truly are, under the masks with which we wear. In time, what will we be. Flying upon high, our dreams fulfilled, or cursed to damnation for the things we have done.

I have knelt to my demons and worshiped them for so long that I know nothing other than the curse. I submit to their whispers and in such I know that I will never truly find the things I seek.

the said joke is that, I won't stop. Thus temptation and hope drill sadness into my ever waking moment. I grow tired and weak. I take that which is not mine for a moment of peace, bringing only more confusion in the long run.

I am my own curse, and I can't stop being me.