Gravesites and Water

I'm at my threshold's gate. My back still holding the weight of failure while staring at the glossy eyes of defeat. So rigorous and epic is the struggle in the grand scheme of things, I find myself tightrope walking my existence between a pit of melancholy and a cliff of rapture. My quest for the top is as heartbreaking as an American quadriplegic frantically wiggling around on the base of the Aggro Crag in the Wrestlemania of Global Guts, yet the only recognition I receive is a mouth full of glitter and confetti, almost taunting me as I see the Russian holding his gold medal while simultaneously shoving his tongue down Mo's throat.
I've not called upon any crutches, so who are these vermin trying to sell me hell wholesale? I've learned your textbook trades, inhaled your smoggy ideals and relished in your banquet of consumerism for too many sunsets. I've walked your beaten path, encountered an intangible amount of dead horses, psychologists with superior acting resumes treading on nike kicks, and only one forlorn backblock of truth. You've entombed me in a coffin of retrospective plague, my battered and forgetful bones wondering if the father of my past remembered to hammer the nails in my pine box. How have you mousetrapped my fire in such an ironic manner?
The cup being half-full is said to be optimistic, half-empty pessimistic. Being full, it seems, has yet to be explained. Where does the other half linger? My head, stifling but kicking, is cautious of treacherous waters now. My heart and balls run rampant with schizophrenia, too eager to fall back to a contemporary Old Navy and GAP-appareled lifestyle yet too apprehensive to chase a new Affliction-riddled outfit. If only my hands were big enough to flip the switch, to switch the halves of my cup. To an untrained eye, my cup appears full. The magician's tricks always tantalize and jeer until you realize it's all backwards. The bottom half of my cup has remained empty, the top (although wise and competent) is diluted like a gallon of water added to a cup of man dream-cream. Without a stable base, anything up top is bound to plummet. Without your passion and your destiny, the knowledge you possess is figuratively futile. The surface of your cup is sure to collapse. We are all born half-empty. We unearth the roots of knowledge that we can to survive, but many of us never unearth the passion that harbors down deep in our rebellious veins to live. The coffins of the courageous will burn and the dead shall walk the earth. If you're only sipping off of the top of the glass, you are dead and sleeping.

Start a fire. Kill yourself. Phoenix in flight.








ps-I think I basically just said I want to be an Affliction kid with a hard-on for water.