And maybe I should be scared of passing cars,
strangers in the dark, but nothing scares me
like the black hole I carry around; the endless
static in my mind and the desire to completely fall;
I'm walking, I don't know why, and it's like I think
placing one foot in front of the other and covering
mile after stupid mile will make the darkness
fall away from me; as if I could ever outrun it.
The cold bites, I can't feel my hands, but that
aching pulse reminds me I still have blood flowing
through my veins, I am still alive however dead
I may feel. Clenching, curling my fingers until the nails
sink into dried skin, to stop myself beating my limbs,
longing to see bruises blossom; sprays of dark
flowers that again prove I am not merely a corpse
reanimated; endlessly pounding darkened pavements
as if I could tire myself enough to sleep easy;
more fear for the way I feel my mind splintering
than anything that might get me, nothing could
ever terrify more than the midnight delights,
and wishes of such a broken mind as mine.
Home holds no comfort, staying still only
makes me feel sick: I want to run away but I can't
think of anywhere safe, friendly; where could I
ever go? Take me somewhere new, I'd rather be out
of place somewhere I've never been; I long
To pack a bag, catch a train, to travel
under the rifts in the sky until I find somewhere
that doesn't make my stomach churn. Now
I find myself heading for home, my legs are lead
and the cold has infected me, but still it
is easier to take than the urge to run, to jump,
to fall, fail and let the world consume me.
They promised me a fight, I know: they said it
would get infinitely worse first, but nobody
understands the crushing waves, the hours
so forbidding and empty; the scent of
some impending doom on the rain-blushed wind.
How can I ever hope to walk far enough,
fast enough, to escape this hell on earth?
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 11:19 AM UTC
And maybe I should be scared of passing cars,
strangers in the dark, but nothing scares me
like the black hole I carry around; the endless
static in my mind and the desire to completely fall;
I'm walking, I don't know why, and it's like I think
placing one foot in front of the other and covering
mile after stupid mile will make the darkness
fall away from me; as if I could ever outrun it.
The cold bites, I can't feel my hands, but that
aching pulse reminds me I still have blood flowing
through my veins, I am still alive however dead
I may feel. Clenching, curling my fingers until the nails
sink into dried skin, to stop myself beating my limbs,
longing to see bruises blossom; sprays of dark
flowers that again prove I am not merely a corpse
reanimated; endlessly pounding darkened pavements
as if I could tire myself enough to sleep easy;
more fear for the way I feel my mind splintering
than anything that might get me, nothing could
ever terrify more than the midnight delights,
and wishes of such a broken mind as mine.
Home holds no comfort, staying still only
makes me feel sick: I want to run away but I can't
think of anywhere safe, friendly; where could I
ever go? Take me somewhere new, I'd rather be out
of place somewhere I've never been; I long
To pack a bag, catch a train, to travel
under the rifts in the sky until I find somewhere
that doesn't make my stomach churn. Now
I find myself heading for home, my legs are lead
and the cold has infected me, but still it
is easier to take than the urge to run, to jump,
to fall, fail and let the world consume me.
They promised me a fight, I know: they said it
would get infinitely worse first, but nobody
understands the crushing waves, the hours
so forbidding and empty; the scent of
some impending doom on the rain-blushed wind.
How can I ever hope to walk far enough,
fast enough, to escape this hell on earth?
