Sleepless

I am not haunted by the fear of failure, but rather cursed with failure haunting me… Every endeavour, every success, there failure is whether I’m at my worst or my best… Confusing me and distorting my perceptions, diluting all the lessons, keepin me guessin, heart racin now cuz I’m stressin, now heart achin cuz it is denied its necessary restin, and I want to kill sound.  I want to murder the echoes, and strangle reverberations.  Because as long as I can hear, then failure draws ever near… I would rip off my ears, but then I’d be cursed with my heartbeat, and if I stop that… who knows what OTHER sounds I’d be starting?  What I need is silence.  The muted tunes of a tomb – deathly quiet.  I do not want to hear, I do not want to speculate.  I care not whether I sucked or did great, for in truth I have lost ability to discern, and so to neither do I gravitate.  I’m like a runaway train – though bad I’m not going to stop, and though I might get to my destination I care not, for I’m already thinking about the next stop I’ve got.  “Good enough” equates to crap, and “great” means the barest percentage over mediocre.  “Phenomenal” means rare, and anything beyond that probably means somebody present isn’t sober.  Getting younger, getting older – death awaits us all.  For reasons I do not know, I ignore the grave’s mating call… Curse failure.  I would that there was no such thing… No such binder, no such lock… No such power that could isolate the word flow out of my mouth – and make it stop.

~The Wordsmith

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