10:37 a.m. - November 30, 2009
The Living Dead
The valor to stand up seems to be fading, daily. Chains weigh down the hope to same day...breathe. But to no avail, the metal is almost as cold as this pale stone, encasing me. Memory or not, the line that repeats: Freedom is but a dream.

Surrender, and justification, but a guilt that builds up inside me cannot be ignored. Cowardace is my trecherous lover that kisses me daily, as I finally fall asleep.

The muscles on my bones have dissapeared and self awareness has withered just the same. My bones are the only thing that remind me a little of who I used to be, but even that is not enough to define my existence anymore.

For me to know this is me, expressing this thought I call feeling is new. I hope to recollect my words, then move to action...verb and noun, finally be able to get out of my tomb.