I'll stop dreaming before they bludgeon me maudlin
Then run. Run off the mill, playing on a paramount race
The light fumes at the tail of a muffled crawlspace
My calloused heels wait, flaring the barest crimson

The wheel makes the world go round, oh quiet defeat
Fed quite fat with golden grease in gun blood
No sullen faced ant ever bites back to chew the cud
On this highway to hell, ****** in an infinity eight

They'll can me like a fish, consumed to be eaten at last
Those who roar with an industry on their mechanical spines
Smoke the steam from black lungs dying as the lifelines
Don't ask anymore, their hands are wide, lips pressed

I know it's hard to say yes
to the fists and clamps
of pain
to reconcile with the
fact that like the thread
you must go through
the small sliver of
needle relief
simply because
you still are not
the person you are

And you'll hit and miss
so many times
in innumerable ways
until that small,bright
area becomes your
own.

I really hate this. I hate it when I am feeling nauseous because of so much anxiety and no one takes me seriously. 'You just ate too much' or 'You're just thinking about it' nobody ever listens and tries to probe instead making their own assumptions. I want to get away from here. Somewhere very far where no one knows me, not even one person. I want to live alone with my disease and heal myself because I can feel it coming back again but the understanding I need is never really enough. There are times when there is so much rage and confusion from inside me and idk where it comes from. It is very dangerous because I just find myself becoming violent and wanting to hurt someone. I feel sick of this but I am the only one who could accept this. If people disowned me, I'd probably thank them because truth be told I don't want to see people right now. I really don't.

I stopped being scared of the lights turned off,
the night underneath my bed
when I understood that there is a bigger dark within me.

There is a place I call Soldier Way  
Sacked at the hem of one ruddy bay  
The open casket of a living ash town

Along the non cerulean periphery  
Waves in battalions besieged in the shores' retreat  
Flitting ceremoniously to a soup of heat  

The white sea calls in a scepter  
Of fleeting air lilies in salt-simmered clouds
Subsumed in daydreams of wet palm castaways

Fiery, elusive pearls praised at my feet  
Then went on to their deaths, fluxing flummoxed  
As flushed touch-me-nots upon human graze 

There, twenty eight steps apart—children cheered  
Flamboyant flowers in a backdrop of a resigned hue  
I smiled against the vigilance of momentary isolation  

In great imaginations, the sea does speak  
To the boulders by the homely sand  
My spring back on their furnaces