Raising hell on the inside.

Languid surfing waves in village company.
Sifting.
Locks on intimate encounters.
Terrified.
Stupefied.
As if she said everything just to make me happy.
I couldn’t be.
Not really.
I didn’t speak.
Only stare at the curves of her lips.
Leaving myself to come up with all the details.
In my mind to conjure the cure to my own loneliness.
Or wander aimlessly.
All along the streets.
Gutters of city outskirts.
Town air clears the lungs.
Despair around every corner.
Lurking like the creature from the black lagoon.
I’m Travis Bickle in my world of all things.
Lonely.
I’ve given up all my possessions.
I’ve moved into run down van that has one headlight.
Half a bumper.
And great steering.
I’ve thrown out all my furniture and have ****** in the street along with all the other materialistic things in my life.
I can’t stand waking up in the morning and seeing myself loath in my troubles.
I can ******* own stress come pouring out of the pores of my ******* skin.
But it all reminds me of the true reminder of my future.
THAT I’M GOING TO die.

Garrett Johnson