Something in here's not right;
in my black box there's a fire.
If here's my home then here I'll burn;
here I'll choke, black mucus, dark thoughts,
dark matter, doesn't fucking matter,
suffocating all the time.
Captured. Figured out. Caught. Caged.
These fever dreams don't pity me,
nails cracked inwards, can't
scrape the hardwood floors blue.
Can't scrape my life together; shifting contents,
spilled out on the floor in anatomical design.
Footprints. Knee prints. Hand prints.
Face down.
I just want someone to hold me
and say, "everything is going to be okay",
every once in a while.
Okay.
GONE. Get crushed in the vice grip of
reality. Reality;
Doesn't even take place in color.
Stretches sense till it tears at the wrists
-I vomit in protest but-
Madness is my resolve! My fortitude.
I will not plead to sanity,
but why is there a light in here?
Somethings wrong.
Bitter to the touch, green/green
on both sides. What is real life?
-I want to tear you apart from the inside
deranged male power fantasy-
Running full speed at the end
of my sentence.
Bones that reverberate, echo,
rattle, then snap.
And
whats in my marrow
burns orange.
Cautionary.