I fear my only happiness comes from waiting.
Anticipating.
Shifting shapes inside my head
Contorting proportions
to get what I want.
Contentment stems
from reality and expectation
extending hands
in a gravitational relation.
But what happens when reality is really
inside the mind?
--in line with slimy fascination
Is the happiness I find
Real or pseudo shine?
Does my neck hold a head
Or a noose
whole?
Because insanity is just playing
the same game
expecting there's something new
to gain
--besides the pain of an empty
plane
backed up inside
a spinal drain,
spiraling down
an icy vein.
Insane, I tell you--
though I'm the only one
calling my name.