Knocking.
There must be someone,
something.
Knocking on the wall
of my head.
For every day
and every night,
my head pounds.
Even when I lie in
bed.
Light pierces and burns,
oh
and the pressure.
It presses against each side
of my skull
like a juice press and squeezes
                                thoughts
of my head
like it’s making some kind of
concoction.
Why me?
Why every day
for as long as I can
remember
has my head pounded.
Maybe
just maybe
It’s the words,
        knocking
                knocking
on my mind.
Asking to be
                spilled
out onto something concrete.
Maybe
just maybe
this knocking,
                pounding,
                        tortu­ring,
feeling inside my head,
is me?

To be happy
It’s hard
And I refuse to believe that
It’s easy
Pain is everywhere but to block it out
Is unheard of
Darkness drowning us from all happiness
And loving every minute of it.
Smiling and feeling better
Is a lie
You’re life is worthless
And believing that
Life is free
It’s not.
Life is terrible
How could anyone say
Life is great.
(read from bottom to top.)

One eye, then the other,
slowly opening with hesitation
because my head has pounded
every night and day for
as long as I can remember.
I use my blanket to deflect light,
like a jacket deflects cold
in December
Because I can already tell
this day is no different.

The thought that I have not yet found
lingers right behind,
the loose,
beaten, curtain that
is my
mind.
It hides and
right at it’s delicate crescendo
it evades my gentle grasp.
Deep into the irrevocable
nothingness
that I can’t seem to find.
I reach blindly into
the interminable
darkness
gasping for light as the black
drowns my
thoughts.
Waiting for her, to pull
me
out.
Waiting to feel her voice,
her
touch,.
Waiting for her
to wrap me in her thoughts,
and take me on journeys filled
with burning roses and silver linings.
Waiting for her,
to bring me
(the thought),
that I have not yet found,

Her.

Stuck in the dark I
will not be
        swallowed.
Eyes suffocated by dark and
        And
guilt.
For this dark is my creation.
It flowed from my thoughts,
Mixed
        With
                My
                        words.
This irrevocable darkness
that has no end.
It just keeps
running
Pouring
screaming
out
around
me.
Till my limbs are numb
And weak
and my heart has turned to
bleak.
This darkness is my own
and it’s so hard to face it.
But I will
In time
Because even though I created
this dark.
The light is also mine

Everywhere I look,
I see more and more
that sense,
has gone.
It got tired
of being available
and not being used.
Now?
People just talk,
and I hear nothing.
For sense has gone,
and taken me with it.