Scars

The scars, they never really heal. They are fissures that ooze with flaming red and yellow, its slime an objection to the skin's youthful glow.

What do these days amount to? Am I a foregone failure or an ascending aspirant? When I am not drugged by sleep the slimy filth of life spills from the scars of yesteryear, yesterday, but I struggle (in vain?) to wash it all off and purify my life of two sins: mediocrity and sloth. But fate would not have it so. No, my head is caught in a vise and the virtues of industry crack under such pressure.

There's nothing more to write.