I'm drowning in perpetual
Anger.

Yet,
no one to
Direct it at.

Maybe it's a sign of the times
Or a symptom of some
Known mental illness,
I have.

I hibernate
In my room
Stewing in my juices-
Running my mind up and down
The tobacco stained walls,
Falling perpetually down,
Like the trails of tar.

At least,
Amongst the dread,
I feel safe in here,
Even though the cabin fever
Is running high.

But I can't make small talk,
Or smile at you,
I'm,
Too ******,
Too jaded,
Too me.

I remain
Anxiously anticipating
A break,
To the silence,
A need for a furious furore,
Some type of tempest.

I am the lord of spite,
Surveying the ruins of a ruined
Life,
Singing the same refrain I always sing,
I hate with a perfect hatred.

I never thought about
Whether I meant something to them
I just
Left
To forget,
They were present.

Can't be hurt
If you can't even remember
Their face.

The first time I smelled the
Pang of death,
It took my breath away,
Stole it,
Befouled it,
Tainted my living flesh
With rigor mortis,
And the certainty of lungs.

Wafting out a
Lounging acrid bitter spasm
As I scrape the corpse
Of the coyote,
Off the highway
Into a garbage bag,
Limbs agape and asymmetrically bound,
In place.

Undertakers don't make coffins
For road ****,
And,
I unceremoniously dump them into
The trash.

Life is a reflection of death,
No one knows you passed on
Til someone tells someone else
So if I keep it to myself,
No one will know.

Till that bitter offal odour
Floats out my door
And,
Takes someone's breath away.

Every day is a
New catatonia
To meander through.

Sleeping too late,
In my own narcoleptic,
Night terror.

Maybe if I ignore
The outside world,
It will go away,
And I can die,
In peace.

Gone too late,
On borrowed time,
In my sleep.