Weight presses
concludes everything,
decides what is nothing,
whips an errand boy to its whim.

Pressure,
withstood
at the promise
of jewels.

Wrapped like candy in your skull
the skin crawling off the bone,  
exposing your white lie life.

"You'll end up the same as him, you know."

His cigarette burnt the faded complications of my life.

"Yeah. I know."

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.