He was so far down, looking up the light was nothing.

"How dramatic of me," he thought "they can't wait, can they?"

Maybe if he just broke the rules a bit farther he could be
jonesing for that hit of pure white
Beachy Head again,
and everything would be gone.

The lumination was just that: fake.
He was just that: break.

"The only way out, is through," said Frost.
"If you're going through Hell, keep going, " said Winston.

"Well I'm not in Hell, Winston, and I can't move through it, Robert."

And so he scraped the ***** root-veined wall with his cheek,
rolled eyeballs down,
and started moving his toes into the earth below.

Chew my scabs,
peel them back
(my paper mache skin).

Let the oil
of my life
flow free,
drink me up.

So long ago, useless digging down.
Will I find you here?
How much more could there be?
Here, I have to pull myself apart:
the only way I can come together.

The edges were brittle,
the chip's corners itched
down like a metal prong into a filling,
nerve.

It squealed binary hemorrhages,
subtle as a battle axe,
my pleasure,
please
put it past me,
in the present
where I can now hum
electric.

It was a blurred mirror
on that Sunday morning,
the wall, black
stretching above there is nothing
but shattering little words
that fell
into his sleep.

I'm leaping in waves,
rolling like dice.
Give me the victory,
she reads just a slice.

She only has so much weakness to bleed,
so much effort to save,
so much anxiety to drain.

I've painted enough words.
You get the point,
but there is less a period.

I've often wondered if, why, when, and how much
it weighs.

It weighs exactly as much as the leaves
you wear upon your hair.