i snort the pillow;
lick shampoo off her hair strands;
she’s on to witchcraft.

i could tell the time at an early age;
yet, i could never tell the misery
of the hour hand of the clock -
that lies in wait...
for what i imagine,
must feel like an eternity,
at the mercy of the minute hand
to finish a full round -
as it is, in turn,
at the mercy of the second hand;
only to move but a
fraction of an inch on its axis:  
so it can be worthy of its name.

surely, it’s the loneliest of
the three hands;
yet, perhaps, also the wisest -
for it knows what’d happen
if it ceases to move -
even for an hour, as it were.
you see, the illusion of a moving clock
is maintained only by the hour hand.
the minute hand could stop for a minute -
and we wouldn’t mind much;
the second hand could stop for a second -
no harm done;
but if the hour hand stops for an hour -
well, we’d notice.

i can never really tell the time now;
just the hour in which i exist.

mind commits a crime:
renders the body unsafe;
the soul bears witness.

oh, the rush!...
that wretched dream
subdues me into a corner of the room,
as i endure myself -
through phases of quiet desperation.
there’s a gap i can’t seem to fill
with my words -
it’s quite a gap;
astronomical;
though feels as short
as but a step.
i was begotten a slave
to delirium
it didn’t hit me -
oh, no no -
it dawned on me.
it was, and still is,
conniving it’s way  
into the sanctity of my mind.
i often feel betrayed by it;
my mind, that is.
ah, what a treat it used to be!
shimmering with sprinkles of yesteryears,
and as sweet as endorphins -
the dream baking in it;
nice, and plum.  
back then, words had the
power to move me.
instantly -
for they were novel,
and as fresh as the scent of
the 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘥𝘢 cake i’d smell  
coming from the kitchen
when 𝘮𝘢𝘢 would be in a
rather generous mood.

now, it’s just words.

i fake a smile at dinner;
try to recreate it in the mirror
when alone -
checking to see if they
could’ve seen through it.

a bed of roses;
ruffled polyester, scorned:
unlucky petals.

i’ve done it again -
i know not why.
with tethered wings,
i sought to fly:
my feathers dye crimson
in the grips of disquiet;
a sworn enemy now,
though once an ally.

i fight the urge
to be myself.
yet, sometimes -
i get overwhelmed
by a sense of futility,
so strong, and lovely;
i’d trade the world for,
and all its wealth.

i hurdle through life
with a beacon un-flamed -
a blackbird through seasons,
with a spirit untamed.
i urge for someone to
light the torch,
so i may sew - the
verses i maimed.

and though i’m weary -
but not for worse;
i must prepare to die again.
tonight, i chase the truth -
for tomorrow -
i must lie again.

come every morning,
i open my eyes slowly,
like i was trained to.

you can see my scars;
my face is riddled with them.
i often wonder,
how anyone could miss them -
yet, they always seem to.

it takes a good look, i guess -
to see how bad things really are.

perhaps they’re blinded
by the smile i put up;
a slick smile, it is -  
surgical -
like a scar…
a big scar,
that hides the smaller ones.

the other day,
it hit me like a truck -
while i was walking to the cigarette shop,
my vanity still in awe of
‘how anyone could miss them…!’  
a man, i saw.
an old man -  
with overgrown ****** hair,
and a yellow mustard duffle coat,  
walking my way.
a flash of traffic light
streaked across his face,
and a feeling took over me;
a strange feeling -
like i had seen a ghost from my past,
or perhaps,
my future.

as he passed me by,
he smiled at me.
ceremoniously, but still.  
as did i.
we timed it perfectly -
like an ambidextrous artist
were at work,
drawing identical curves
with their hands.
i noticed,
my smile had lasted longer
than i expected.

a few yards down the road,
i stopped abruptly…
and whimpered,
‘oh...’

a brick in the wall -
an ant crawls into a crack;
becomes family.