Premature Paranoia

It does not exist if I do not write about it.
It cannot kill me if I do not open the door.
The blood will not trickle out if the cut is sealed with a kiss. 
But the lips are burnt.
The skin might turn into red ash.
Keep away the rituals from me, I say!
Put me not on a funeral pyre;
please just bury me beneath the waves.
Or perhaps inside a casket of gold,
let my death know the shimmer of stupidity.
Too much of sanity is stifling my existence,
Bound in the chains of jabber and pretense.
Cut the chords, and let me float away.
Away from myself.
But look, there s a knock on the door.
Is it the sword of sorrow?
Is it the knife of grief?
Or is it an endless procession of pity hidden behind a mask of smiles?

- A prisoner of Existence