Only The Dead Rest

This horrid fever bloated shell is beginning to squeeze my brain too tight. By miserable dreams entranced. Bleeding for these eyes to remain shut in darkness. In this conscious cycle I am trapped. Spare me this transient surge of chemical nausea, mimicking contentedness. Pressed into my forehead, these fingertips fail to comfort my mind. Comatose descension. My psyche withers and cracks as the worm naked to the burning sun. Razor lined parasites that trace their way through my brain. I have harbored this virus inside my mind my whole life, wallowing in a pool of vomit. Inside my skull thoughts grow sore and begin to decay, infected, swollen, and bursting. My jaw tightens into a clench. Cranial pulse escalates to a pounding throb. I turn my focus inward, to be relieved by perpetual void. For we cannot attain in life the adoration we receive in death. I am glad to have died, and now that I am gone, I know only the dead truly rest.