Consistent

It is nearly constant,

This sadness,

This melancholy,

That is nearly immortal.

They say the brain

Is the only portal

Into the soul,

Yet my brain and soul,

Having taken heavy toll,

Are forever dead, filled with dread,

And so instead,

I am but a stain,

Blatent,

Upon the everlasting,

Ever living,

Ever growing universe.

With too much failure to be able

To find someone with whom to converse.

My mental state, unstable,

My sanity, corrupt,

Neither exist anymore.

At this point,

So full of sadness,

Melancholy,

Gloom,

I simply am here,

Sitting,

Waiting,

Anticipating the day

When the doctor will say

"He's dead."