I am descending down a hole, That I have been down before. This time when I dive in, I may not be coming back up again.
I stared too far into the abyss, Dived too deep into it's depths. Lost myself to what I found within, And it made it's home beneath my skin.
I feel this irritation beneath the surface, and I just got to gnaw at it. Self-cannibalistic I've become, Slowly eating myself away, Carnivorous consumption of the substance that nets around my bone. Hoping to rid myself of this irritation.
Who knew dying would taste so **** good today. Every bite I take I am slowly eating myself away. The only way I feel alive is taking the thing that will **** me one day.
Soon my bones will be exposed, but even then I will not be satisfied. I will break them open and devour the marrow inside, Leaving myself hollowed out and broken.
I am eating myself away. Soon nothing will remain, but the fragments of bones of a lost soul. And yet I still won't be satisfied.
Be careful not to enter, or all your flesh will disappear.
Cough! Cough!Cough! Ouch!tough, Try this cough syrup, In no time you will be up. No infection, no inflammation, no allergen, In a jiffy, everything gone. My onion sugar cough syrup is better, All you need is an onion and sugar, And a jar. Cut the onion into round slices Round rings, not tiny pieces, Place an onion ring in a jar, Cover it with sugar, Place a second slice on top, Cover the same with sugar on top, Till you are done. Close the jar tight, Leave it overnight. The next day, your honey coloured cough syrup is ready, Wish your recovery is speedy.
Stop me if you've heard this before but I feel this feeling fleeting, running opposite me to lands unknown where lost dreams go to die. Why are words so fickle? Leaving at the lightest touch, the barest hint of anything new. A world, undiscovered, lies within a place I can reach only when I am most bare. My purest form of self, mewling and screaming, pulls from me this insatiable insanity. Yet with the slightest digression my sleeves roll themselves down and it's gone again. I am lost into reality like some suited being, honking at the other monkeys in futile attempts to make up for lost time. Was it worth it? Is that loss of captivation worth an ounce of conversation? Bring me back to that place. I want to feel the pen warming between my fingers again. That smooth ink feel on dead, life-giving friends. Is this the closest I can get to holiness?
The talking heads used to sing a lullaby now everyone dreads when they even sigh. Creating static that no hands could hope to block out hiding in the attic but the sealing’s peeled and so has the grout.
I can’t bear to hear another word of resentment that is undeserved, even the slightest breath of air is a kin to irritation I can’t compare.
The talking heads used to compose magic but now their frowns illuminate something tragic. A life that pushes me out of place, my skin, my heart and soul; a waste.
If you’re questioning what these words mean while you’re reading them on an LED screen you’ve yet to experience silence’s bliss, when you do you’ll see it’s something to miss. Noise cancellation fails the trial, cars honk and phones dial, I remember the sound of just the breeze of damp grass and brushing knees.
The talking heads trapped in my ear never seem to want to stop. Telling me all I don’t want to hear, I beg and plead but each topic they won’t drop
I can’t bear to hear another word of resentment that is undeserved, even the slightest hint of a sigh is too much of an attempt to pry.
I sip coffee, black, no sugar, no cream, and hope so badly that you see me with my arms stiff, my eyes burning violet, my throat humming, buzzing like a swarm of wasps clearing the area;
I despise coffee but not as much as I despise the shame you walk with or the silent stares angled in another direction. Look at me with coffee that hurts and twists my stomach; it exists much like you, a crutch to feel alive but it only causes nausea.
you are the itch on my ******* and I have use the razor blades of cheap toilet paper to get rid of you
you are the dirt and grime under my fingernails and I have to dig deep with a safety pin to get you out
you are like fiberglass swimming in the pools of my porous skin and consciously reminding the hemisphere of my suffering with every thread that I’m alive
you are the haughty paint chips that have peeled off the wall and lightly floated to the floor awaiting to taint the envenomed mind of toddlers
you are the popped **** blisters oozing down my sun poisoned shoulders
you are the gummy white film that has coagulated at the corner of my mouth
you are the burning rash on top of my feet and there is no soothing aloe that will cure you
you only provide brine and lemon juice to the paper cuts of my limitations
and if the choice was mine to either have another conversation with you or take a beheading
I’d sprint towards the guillotine, impatiently waiting for the executioner to carry out the sentence
and my tilted severed head will slouch peacefully in the brightly shining sun, smiling in the woven basket of relief
but I know you’ll be there painting a mural of fabricated stories of aches and moans in the hallways of my ear canals
because after I’m long gone and I’ve said my farewells to all the foolish molecules of easily forgotten pastimes you’ll just keep coming back like a thunderstorm of bill collectors like a kitten to a shoelace like ****** to your father and you’ll bring nothing to the table or offerings to the gods except exasperation to our nerve endings and disdain to everyone and anyone you fall in with like a bear claw to the back
so why is it that the quiet guy who wants to be left alone, somehow always attracts the most bothersome people of the world who never shut the **** up?