This horrid fever bloated shell is beginning to squeeze 
my brain too tight. By
miserable dreams entranced. Bleeding for these eyes to 
remain shut in darkness.
In this conscious cycle I am trapped. Spare me this 
transient surge of chemical
nausea, mimicking contentedness. Pressed into my 
forehead, these fingertips
fail to comfort my mind. Comatose descension. My psyche 
withers and cracks as
the worm naked to the burning sun. Razor lined parasites 
that trace their way
through my brain. I have harbored this virus inside my 
mind my whole life,
wallowing in a pool of vomit. Inside my skull thoughts 
grow sore and begin to
decay, infected, swollen, and bursting. My jaw tightens 
into a clench. Cranial
pulse escalates to a pounding throb. I turn my focus 
inward, to be relieved by
perpetual void. For we cannot attain in life the 
adoration we receive in death.
I am glad to have died, and now that I am gone, I know 
only the dead truly
rest.