A measure of grief

Small and wimpy you are now. Wounded and dieing. Angered to the core at that cunt of a world that showed no sympathy, but hammered you down till you met the devil living in the depths of hades. Broken with the fall you will not stand up. You can't stand up. All you do is curl up, hoping you'll die fast. A swarming army of memories charge at you striking you with all the deeds that deceived you. The memory of a love that was not love, the memory of care that was not care, the memory of joy that was not joy but his sheer abundant self pleasure. You were an entertainer. A puppet with too long the strings who didn't see what dangled you up from there, cos' he was just too darn up high!

The measure of the wasted few years, lost priorities, bruised emotions, a life no longer fit to live and a face of shame that can not be mended tops off your grief.

Then a ray of light will be shead on you. The warmth makes you seek for it making you crawl out of your misery. You simply need more. More of that shimmer so beautiful, so resurrecting. Its' called a 'new day'. Get up, stand up, walk up and spew the mangy cunt with a flash of life. It will burn, it will melt at your comeback.

How simple the most important things in life. We show a blind eye, maybe laugh at them too and then rush over to the insignificant and try make life out of them.
Meet the simple. The shut down lights. The diamonds in the rough. With them, the measure of grief will sum down to none.