Updated: Aug 13, 2021
The problem for the ones who start wearing pain like sandals is simple,
They allow the monster to grow docile,
As if it can be potty-trained, fed and caressed.
Co-habitation is an option no longer,
It is the only way out of the labyrinth of the blood vessels that pop out.
A perfect concoction of cooling syrup for the ulcers that makes existence a synonym for profound affliction.
Critics accuse the act as a luxurious indulgence,
And they can't be blamed because from a distance,
It seems as if blood and poetry are the same thing,
Or worse, they combine into something beautiful.
Maybe they do.
But that's never the point.
Because the illusion of control is a well thought-out conspiracy,
Carefully laid out to lure in the Sisyphean masochism.
The coefficient of friction betrays and you trip,
"It's a deja vu" you think and wait for it to pass.
Your furrowed brow is pronounced as you try to recollect your methods, defences, and cure.
Absolutely fixated in the position you fell.
The monster smirks.
Betrayal never tasted more bitter!
You throw the sandal away only to buy a new one.
Convinced it'll have a softer feel.
And the cycle of the masochist, continues.