I have killed myself
thus far with only caffeine
in my string of nerves.

Anxiety looks on at my
hinges loose with each patter
of its dark grooves in my lips
I feel as tensed as
I already am.

My mind suddenly
pitching thoughts of
five or more different
ways I'll go gone as I pursue
the silent knives
in the kitchen or play along
the open danger of the fields.

I am dizzied up in heaps
of misty scenes under
each blink like the milky way
taking home in the blankets
of my lids.

What has spun dimless
like bright-eyed goblins
in the tightening of my ribs
creeps upward and downward
both of us lost in the tremor
of coffee,coffee and maybe
even some cream.

One cup, one cup
of all that is grave, unsolicited
of all things frail
stirred in a cauldron of my
own fairy god witch,
paranoia that *****.

But as I concur needful of
the eartheness, the subjectivity
I am hopeful, I am vital
I am called to hear life
beyond my worry
of dying as the world watches
on with coffee in their hands,
perhaps brewed
perhaps ****.

Juxtaposed between fear
and hope sits coffee for
some ******* chair
of a reason.I have hung on
to it like poison and antidote
mixed like hot and cold tea,
like Hades and Persephone.

I have wished for it
to stay with the fallout
of scuttling equilibrium.

Because it tastes so wrong
but it makes me right,
somehow,  somewhere
I can't quite place.