The words in my head are buzzing between themselves
so angry
they want me to do something more, something different
like they have a mind of their own
they want to be me so bad
flesh and ***** instead of words and synapses;
I'm so sorry
I try so hard to say its not my fault
I curl into the bath with them
they whisper to me
taunt me
tell me I'll never be 'the show'
I try and numb myself but their words cut into me like a knife
heated to spread butter
their words fill my brains folds
and I walk around with my brain smoothed into my skull
I go into my moods
throwing, creating, drinking
forcing ideas into the wall
the miserable sound stings as the slide down
my skull;
the first whispers down my spine
making my feet hurt
after standing all day in dress shoes;
the second whispers along the walls
teasing what others have said;
the third sits inside me
telling me what I really need to hear from myself;
I **** and moan and rage
as they talk among themselves
they tell me most don't have a voice
that controls them
they say they control the voice
I call *******;
There's a voice inside me that doesn't want others to know he exist
and tries to stop me from knowing him;
these insects plague me;
the voices can't be played with
trapped in my head
but they become flies
trying to suffocate me in sleep
I swipe at them
my hands joining them in the air symphony
I fold in on myself
it hurts
it hurts a lot
my body is telling me to go
my mind is screaming stop
I hug them both in bed at night.
Trying to convince one to take the blame
inspired by Charles Bukowski's work 2 flies