be wary always
of my ever waiting
romantic depression

it crouches always
in the spaces between
the walls of my study
observing my progress
with a welling of loss

It's a trick of the imagination
It's a tremble of words
A trickle till saturation
A treacle of the absurd

A blink to regain reality
I think therefore I have a malady
A drink and a pill
To recall of some storm
A brick
A window
A breach amongst sanity
Some ink to **** on to the page
Pad torn
And I'm a fink
A sage
A bone
And a bore
Minimum wage
On form
To earn
An audience with royalty
Score one for mortality
I'm a scribble
I'm a scribe
Free to reside
And shake up a globe
With ruin ingestures
And muddy brutality
And wonderless digestions
I am my own worst memory
A victim of vanity

Its getting increasingly closer..
We're getting increasingly closer.
Opening up is like moving a dam thats been lodged tightly in place for years.
And what if all you see is rupture underneath?
Sometimes I'm not sure if I have feeling left in the vicinity of this body
so many numbed 'I'm fines' over the years.
But what if someone was really listening?
What if you touched me and my body responded
in the form of a deep set howl?
A wail of tears neither of us are prepared for-
because I've worn my vulnerability on every corner of this face
and I shake, I stutter, when I even muster the courage to allow
syllables leave my mouth.
And too many associated memories..
I try and allow myself to forgive-
myself.