Brooding in dejection I sit,
On the bottom of a murky pit.
Beneath in my suffering I drown,
Here in pitch-darkness deep down.
Here I am, forgotten and alone,
Alone with a heart turned to stone.

The pit’s compass is small,
Its rock faces are tall.
Above, the sky shows only as a star;
All else is as black as tar.
What my destiny holds is stark,
For here all is swathed in dark,

The dig’s confines are narrow;
Its cold stings me like an arrow.
In agony I feel the pain of its barbs,
As I watch how the world around me warps.
For as hatred clouds my eyes,
I am poisoned by a thousand lies.
Through despair my soul was consumed,
As above me death ever loomed.
Everything around me became distorted,
As I came to wish only to have this life aborted.

When I am looking back,
In every year I see the same lack:
But for crags entirely bare,
Onto empty plains I stare.
Nothing is left to be destroyed;
For in this life there is nothing but void.
And yet this wretched life,
With desolation it is rife;
As if every second I was ailed,
By everything where I have failed.

In my mind, I can hear,
That which I am unable to bear.
Around my head resounds,
As my heart restlessly pounds,
The noise of a deafening blaring
As upon me my conscience is glaring.
The threats its conveys are most dire,
As their words burn my soul like fire.

Now in this wretched soul,
By bitterness long made foul,
Nothing at all is still left,
For of all emotion it is bereft.
All that has still remained,
Is that by which I am most pained;
And this is nothing more,
Than the same curse I ever bore;
Worse than the worst ordeal,
It is my inability to feel.
For what, if anything,
Is left of my soul’s feeling?

No matter how hard I try,
Without understanding why,
I am ever unable to see
What there can be wrong with me.
For I am afflicted by a paralysis,
Which can be explained by no analysis.

I can no longer bear this.
Is this the onset of psychosis?
Have I just lost the way?
Or is all emotion slipping away?

The very thought is terrifying
That all feelings would be dying.
Yet the only thing that fills me -
It in itself is empty.
For of their entire spectrum
All that is now left is vacuum.
It is the only thing that I can still feel
As though all else was locked beyond a seal;
My mind only feels dull;
As though it is insensate,
And the emptiness of which I am so full
Is all that has been spared by my hate.

This hate ever tells me to suffer,
Haunting me like Lucifer.
I can ever hear its whisper,
From the break of day till vesper.
For now and every waking moment,
I am pained by its torment.
My mind is seated in a thorn,
Whose needles it’s so long born.
Never am I given rest,
By the life I so detest.
It stabs me with a thousand knives,
And yet every time my soul revives.

Fate, oh vile monstrosity,
Show me some of your kind generosity;
With this cruel truth unveiled,
I scream the plea to be impaled:
Quarter me, break me on the wheel.
Do anything to me, but just let me feel.
For I so pant for the ecstasy,
Of my so long forgotten misery.

From these depths rise tortured moans.
Yet fate’s crimes God ever condones.
Lord I beg you, set me free:
Spare me from being me.
Release me at once from this prison:
Undo the world in which I have arisen.