Tick, tock, tick, tock.

The voices are ringing in my ears, a thundering conundrum I have yet to figure out. He's screaming, no he's whispering, oh I can't tell anymore, from a thunder to a shiver its all the same to me I'm deaf I'm blind I see with echolocation I am a bat in its cave begging to see the light though I know it burns.

Each sentence blurs to the next a word a whisper oh there I go with whispers again did I forget a comma, some punctuation? Sorry my mind is a mile a minute when it feels such frustration in its bones that it cannot feel its toes anymore.

Wait, my brain doesn't have toes.

Nonsense. I am practically a wonderland character with all my nonsensical drivels about love and mania and speed and tears and lust and death. Give me a hat and I'm practically batty, my good sir. I will make a march with my hair and wish you a very merry un-death-day, or however that goes.

Falling down my rabbit hole, no my cave, I'm a bat, remember? I have found a way to fall sideways right into your heavy arms and you stare at me aghast, for I am not who you once thought I to be. There is a face for each hue, each color of my pigments, I'm a leaf, each season brings out a different color, well unless your coniferous but that is besides the point and very much more about needles, but I digress.

Wait, I'm a bat. What is this nonsense about leaves?

Sit down at my table and I will explain it all to you dear, how my brain is wired like a ticking time bomb, ready to set off at any moment, particularly if my pretty little pills aren't butterflying in my bloodstream, those little friends of mine simply forgetting a swim day.

Funny how one day without them can be average or it can be, well, this. Quite mad, isn't it? Tick tock, tick tock. The mouse ran up the clock, the clock struck twelve and the bat swept down and the mouse is left to rot. Tick tock, tick tock.  

Give me a cat or two and then there's a name for me, but I bet your bottom dollar every single one is a chesire, grinning, tormenting, taunting, killing. They reflect the little demons in my heart.

Have you ever been so afraid of your own reflection, or the butter knife at the end of your table, and how it might just slip into your fingers at ever the wrong moment and you might regret your next action for the rest of your life? I've only once or twice, but it was a once too many, and now I'm terrified of that little butter knife resting on the end of my table, taunting my demons, knowing how much I fear them.

Should I be a true ****** and enter a hospital? No, I will never learn honesty, all these thoughts kept up in my pretty little head will never leave my pretty little head, they enjoy their tenancy too much. Just pop the pills, Grace, darling, and everything will be ok.

A few more hours, and then I can be reunited with my dear little friends, and like the good little bat I am, recoil back into my cave, and let the butterfly angler I wiggle out be the beautiful front everyone sees. No mad hatter, no march hare, no alice, not even a bat. A pretty butterfly that everyone loves.

If only they knew what this butterfly had behind her; a cave full of wonderland.

And everyone should be afraid of that.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Under the celestial heavens,
The sceptic, is so small, slight—
In a dull room, filled with gloss, vacant,
Unbelievers, hayseeds, who unbeknownst
To themselves, are all in an incestuous love cult,
A construct so vain, vacuous, of spineless comfort
And smarmy snugness, a tribe of loose, yawning tripe,
A spew of runny phlegms, a scheme of useless blue things,
Festering.  What rational and clear clods, of beheadedness,
Cluelessness, in clefts of lobotomy, plain and clearly sightless,
Without seeing, they proclaim, all that their dull drivels, the dear
Elders had once spoon fed to them, preached, said— now, how,
They are sad, righteous and solemn in their preordained, oldness,
Incongruous, indifferences and prejudices.  To have completely lost
Any warm, decent, actual feelings for emotion is foreign— the stars,
Do not align, the waters will not part, yet they are blind to the lies
In themselves.  To have experienced— any real, beating, ******
Thing is beside the point, is beyond their ken, is not knowable,
Yet, kowtow-able, quantifiable, not actual, but unbelievable
They—the smug, slugs, under rugs, are dead, as dust,
Under celestial skies, deep, darkness inside  .  .  .

Cling, cling, cling.
Flop, flop, flop.
Ding, ding, ding.
Drop, drop, drop.
The screen blinks,
My brain drivels.
The colours *****,
My cells shrivel.
Cling, cling, cling.
Drop, drop, drop.
Why can't I stop, stop, stop.