It ticks
Like a bomb
Inside a cave
When it explodes
It only has one place to go
Out the way it came
With fast wind
Hot fire
And death
That follows

Thinking back, it makes a lot of sense...
The well-hidden rage.
Minor outbursts here and there.
The silent plea for help.
Drowned furth by the shower head.
Spurting cold, cold water.

The numbness that comes afterward.
The beating of a heart calming down.
Echoing in your head.

It comes in waves, ya know?
They're not always soft,
Against the shoreline of your inner mind.
Instead, pounding sharp and icy,
Jagged rock and coarse sand under your palm.

Other times it catches you in your sleep.
Completely unaware.
Sometimes mid-sentence.
Your mouth left half open.
Eyes faded into the black tunnel,
Where all words seem to have disappeared into.

Brows furrow in confusion and loss.
Bam!
Sudden tears spring forth like a broken faucet.
There was no trigger this time.
Nothin to push you over the edge.
And yet...

The screaming doesn't help.
The rage building in the pit of your belly.
Stoking an agonizingly acidic fire.
Which spreads like a virus into your veins.
Vibrating under your skin.

Hyper-aware now.
Thoughts fluctuating so quickly your mind spins.
Unable to catch words, phrases.
So fast they sound like another's voice.
Right in your ******* ear.
Another itch altogether.

Options, throw the good crystal across the room.
Pray your mother forgives you from the grave.
Knock a chair over.
Pull your hair.
Grab the largest kitchen knife.
Blood staining caramel skin.
Unmarred in years.
The old ones faded with time.
But you can still see them.
Drip. Drip. Drip.

You close your eyes against these visions.
Breath.
Calm.
Continue.

"Don't forget to take your meds tonight."
You tell your reflection.
She nods trembling.
"Okay.

Once I was a king loathed by my kingdom.
I was a machine built from the toughest iron nothing could break through.
I left my emotions to rust in the rain and murdered them in the cold night.
But I let my ego hold my strings and now I can't even treat a human right.
I meet a manic on the south side of town.
With a cane in hand and his mind locked in a birdcage since the war.
He was a maniac for trusting me and loving me and all my iron core.
I don't believe his tales for,
he is dead on the inside.
Departed from his heart,
He says he feels more alive this way.
With a cigarette in my hand, I hope for his life to never feel alone again.

Imagine and it begins, the mire sired from mind amok.
May have at once mattered, now the imagination is stuck.
Non-commit to all your projects, ideas strewn prettily.
In notebook crumble garland filigree.
You remember, only that you've forgot.
All work you do is nihilistically for naught.

**** that mess, darling. You are the best.
Calm be simple and be ******, indeed.
Even now you work heart pumping chest.
But happy in finishing you're not so keyed.

Back to the doldrums and foot tap astray.
Knit fury with hands excite, colour gone.

Back from the dead, dancing with blushes.
Ego bruised snide, coy imagination rushes.

wishing for a break
from the hectic mania
that my mind projects
and the absolute havoc
the outside world reaps