Too much life will ****
your will to live and feel.
It’s a presence pushing in,
constantly pounding,
pretty pulses projecting,
energy worth inspecting
as an existence worth dissecting.

Desire equal to
one’s willingness to move,
as the same love is denied,
such passions are rebuffed
but others do not get to decide
whether your desires are right.

Expectations say
men aren’t supposed
think or act that way,
but there are years
where tears were
a reoccurring visitor.

Joys are allowed in as well,
an ecstasy of elevating
than crashing to devastating
proportions,
as happiness’s abortion
brings you back to earth.

Crashes from the atmosphere,
in longing for empathy,
for anyone to finally reach me,
while begging for everyone
to leave me alone.

There is nothing simple or clean
about the mess made by
my biological machine,
metal madness made flesh
thumping, rising in time
to be repressed, and depressed.

No god found just the sound
of other people’s pain intruding
solitude and peace eluding,
while I am exuding confidence and joy
I am ready to cash in finally crashing
into nothing.