In some autumn nights
I’d sound aloud a shriek
That pierced my own ears
And fell, shortly after
To the hard stone floor
And tore what little sanity I claimed
Channeled a surreal, cruel name
And summoned a demon I wear on my sleeve for show
For I once claimed to know all about such things I knew nothing about
Yes on some autumn nights
When the sewers were dry thanks to my tear-drought and a year of northern lights shining in the distance was not enough to make up for it, on such oddly tender, half shivering nights, I found myself in a mirror or a lake looking back at myself in all that blueish haze of a time when I’d put a puzzle piece through a glitter door and call it art and dream about methodical things that spewed out of my heart
In a sky of purple dust
And amber ash
I’d fall flat on my face with a splash
In the snow, my blood would not clot, but spew out and then I guess the two distant eyes in the sky would look down and call such a thing odd
But being there in solitude
With no one coming or going; I’d lay
They’d call it art, but it’s just another off-day

my blood boils,
reeling thickly through my veins
my limbs swell with red,
breath quickens and hastens
for an explosion of incoherent material,
simply permitting the emotion
to tremble deep in the marrow
of my bones like the way the earth
rumbles with exhilarating fury,
the world vanished and I'm consumed
with this parasite inside of me
and I fume and tremble,
anticipating the impeding scream
building in the hall in my chest,
its digging fingers creeping through
the cavities and pulsing throat,
and I open my mouth to shout, to scream,
yet nothing escapes...
I walk silently, the quaking of my knocking knees
and darting of my eyes
betraying the sizzling coals
boiling the red I feel
pooled in the pit of my stomach
and like spit fire, my fury collapses in
its own exhaustion,
so simmering and flickering,
I burrow into an empty shell...
waiting for my wounds to heal

Is it a little pitiful thing
Shut and lock
My shutters rock slightly
And a light enters, subtly
I know what beckons me
And recognize it well,
Wholeheartedly
Fear and anxiety
Haunt my walls and furniture
Like a putrid odor:
I harbor what little will is left,
Do you still think me pitiful, yet?

It slithers in
A flowing, glowing sinner
It is the true winner
And a shining, plundering wonder
Eliminates my incense
Showers me
And makes me cower
In my own existence
Foster, don’t I still foster some adopted hope?
Outside strength
Inside weakness

And it's all blocked out of me
And I'm left alone in the colliding powers
And it explodes in my face, flammable
Understandable, for me.

And I'm homeless
Again, it seems.