Something in here's not right;
in my black box there's a fire.
If here's my home then here I'll burn;
here I'll choke, black mucus, dark thoughts,
dark matter, doesn't ******* matter,
suffocating all the time.
Captured. Figured out. Caught. Caged.
These fever dreams don't pity me,
nails cracked inwards, can't
scrape the hardwood floors blue.
Can't scrape my life together; shifting contents,
spilled out on the floor in anatomical design.
Footprints. Knee prints. Hand prints.
Face down.
I just want someone to hold me
and say, "everything is going to be okay",
every once in a while.
Okay.
GONE. Get crushed in the vice grip of
reality. Reality;
Doesn't even take place in color.
Stretches sense till it tears at the wrists
-I ***** in protest but-
Madness is my resolve! My fortitude.
I will not plead to sanity,
but why is there a light in here?
Somethings wrong.
Bitter to the touch, green/green
on both sides. What is real life?
-I want to tear you apart from the inside
deranged male power fantasy-
Running full speed at the end
of my sentence.
Bones that reverberate, echo,
rattle, then snap.
And
whats in my marrow
burns orange.
Cautionary.