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samuel-alexanderPoems
A tempest rages, Within my mind, Thoughts screaming, striking as thunder, as shards of ice fragmenting upon impact, Leaving cold, leaving. I am struck, shocked by the sudden realisation that I am not who I was. A current of electricity coursing through my brain, A current I swim against with no hope of winning out, my strength is waning, I have no resolve. My nerves are a deer caught in headlights, I am nervous. I am self-destroying, I am at war with myself. I am a man without eyes, seeing things that aren't there, seeing things. I am conflicted, confused, corroding in the early hours of morning, The sun comes up but the days are dark. Rotting wood, rotting mind, Veins staining skin, like forks of lightning beneath the flesh. I am withering, Wasting, I am waste, Don't waste ammo on the dead. Lines etched in bodies, Like seams in fabric, Like the ******* on my kitchen bench. Addictions crying to be satisfied, To be sated, Nose decorated in white, All I know is night. Mountains in eyes, too high to conquer, An uphill battle, Failure, another pill, Another regret. And another.
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Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
The Prisoner of Consciousness
A tempest rages, Within my mind, Thoughts screaming, striking as thunder, as shards of ice fragmenting upon impact, Leaving cold, leaving. I am struck, shocked by the sudden realisation that I am not who I was. A current of electricity coursing through my brain, A current I swim against with no hope of winning out, my strength is waning, I have no resolve. My nerves are a deer caught in headlights, I am nervous. I am self-destroying, I am at war with myself. I am a man without eyes, seeing things that aren't there, seeing things. I am conflicted, confused, corroding in the early hours of morning, The sun comes up but the days are dark. Rotting wood, rotting mind, Veins staining skin, like forks of lightning beneath the flesh. I am withering, Wasting, I am waste, Don't waste ammo on the dead. Lines etched in bodies, Like seams in fabric, Like the ******* on my kitchen bench. Addictions crying to be satisfied, To be sated, Nose decorated in white, All I know is night. Mountains in eyes, too high to conquer, An uphill battle, Failure, another pill, Another regret. And another.
samuel-alexander
Written by
samuel-alexander
New Zealander
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
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