heart deep misery. old old wounds.
forgotten or unknown, walled off rooms.
I sit in them, alone, watching patterns
form on walls and floor, matching
the cracks and mold inside my head.
hypnotic but sickening, meant
for the past where it could make sense
where words hurt and then heal again.
not this rush of sensation and acid rain.
dark and light. pain. and more raw foul ****** pain.