Sanity.

The mind is a wondrous place. Mundane lines to write. Probably written in dog-eared books, graffitied on walls, much abused by almost every orator.
Point of the matter being, either the human mind is constantly plagued by denial or an extremely strong urge for self preservation.

When someone has beaten the living hell out of you and your face is engaging in polite exchange with germs from the floor, you're probably lying there, tasting metal at the back of your mouth and thinking... "I should go to the opticians and get myself new spectacles. Pity these ones broke. I always did like the translucent brown. I also need a new battery for the phone. Do I have enough cash? Translucent brown... pretty. Like the colour of a murky swamp 'neath a sky painted fiery red by a sunset. Why do I always think about sunsets? Why not sunrises? Sun-kissed fields. Pretty, too. Like the strand of hair brushing against a woman's cheek. Ah.. people. So beautiful. So ugly. So orderly. So chaotic. So, so messed up. Slang again. Why can't I think in decent Victorian English terms? The English were sobs anway. Why do I care? Apathy. We live in apathetic times. So fond of passing the blame. We make these times apathetic. Great, so my face is half smashed up and I'm talking about society. *weird fit of self-deprecating laughter* Get a life, you shit."

Hope, coursing through my veins like a shot of oblivion,
The bane of my life.
The bane?
A tinge bruised purple.
Skin pops,
Warm, sticky liquid.
The pink of corals.
The red of gleams.
And dreams.

Hope.
Like slow spinning redemption.
Dangles from a string.
Hurtling, spiralling damnation.