the wood creaks
and the roof leaks
with tears
our tears
because we're broken
and a full house
doesn't make a bountiful life
nor does a fancy couch
make a house a home

roar until the shingles fall
and weep for every brick upturned
we're in a house fit

*humble abode,
ruined by rage,
up for sale,
purchase now

chew my tongue
detonate my lungs
strip my heart
and rip me apart,
my limbs
my soul
myself,
entirely

it's only a matter of time
before i do it
with my own scarred hands

so you may as well get a head start
there's no line if you come in the morning
then again
there's no line ever, to be honest
merely a crowd consisting of one

one being i

for the rest of the world is too busy,
planning their own self-destruction

When I stand next to them,
I feel like an outsider.
When I'm without them,
I feel lost amongst silence.

In what way can I save myself
from inner torment,
and stormy self-pity?

Every social task is a chore
and when there is none to be taken
I find myself bored.

Strip me of my name and social security number,
and stick me in a room where I no longer exist.
I'm shedding my skin,
taking leave from society.

I'm on the outside looking in
forever-more.