A game of cat and mouse. Chasing my self around my house. I've been racing for an exit, an escape, a way out. The door is locked and the walls are lined with grout. I've grown to the ceiling. My room is crushing, I am nieling. Locked in my tomb. I am looking for healing. Shaking with hunger, I'm on strike. I don't wish to continue my plunder, life is a slowly drifting slumber. The Comfort is numbing. My days are limited now to a finite number. I am at ease in the most sadistic of ways. Calming nerves by the bottle. Death serves me so I Cottle. pills will bring me curves. The short, sort with an upper to snort, downer to swollow. It is fair that my life is hollow. I hate to rued the ***** to illude my crude attitude I've stewed. So I will no longer relish food. Still, by choice. Perish