Crease

Unfolding, in a little paper box, a heart-shaped pictogram of discontent. Tattoo a stranger to the bedpost. A numb contribution to society. Burning violently in a shadowed corner of life. Rolling, over the curbing tendencies of an ancient sacrifice. Propostering the undermining of normality. Unavoiding to lessen any hope of peace. Passing another chapter in the episode of pride. Laying the final answer down. Weilding anything that might bring happiness. Any moment that perhaps will justify the ignorance, and once again bring purpose to the quest. Folded, atlast, atleast, for now.