I close my two eyes
I can’t see anything
I need a hand
from my pineal gland
to give me some vision
projections hit the back of my eyelids
showing me images conjured by myself
I am the artist and the audience
finally a filmmaker
but I have no editor
every edition is a suicide cut
the assembly footage with no assembly
different stories with the same outcome
being stuck in a homicide rut
different possibilities creating a medley
of my own creations hunting me
with the faces of others plastered on
in this world my mind is God
isolating flaws and fears
always feeling the end is near
when there was no beginning
to moving pictures with no plot
just mapping out my mind rot
showing me my insecurities and anxieties
leaving me insecure and anxious
I’m starting to hate the author of these stories
but the more I hate him the more they get gory.