to sever every limb from bone
and pull it all out for a better look.
perhaps then i can find out the colour
of my mind, for there is clearly poison
seeping through it and i would like to
get to know this little sneak a little more.
this colourful spirit, fooling itself
with its flight, though it will always only be
three feet above ground,
chained at its ankle to its
black, black alter ego,
lying face down and hopeless,
wishing it all away.
because black is fucking contagious.
both parents and child. i am
that drunk driver. i am the little boy
at either ends of the rifle;
which is sicker to you? pick it.
i am the abortion,
dripping down her legs
and sucking life out of her.
someone else’s depression in films
because it is funny
when you can relate, the one who
smiles at the darkest, sickest of thoughts
when i hear them said aloud, because
it feels like somebody is speaking my language.
i am the broken parachute. i am crumpled
and corrupt, like the tax forms of the poor,
like the insurance forms of a dying man
who never missed a payment. this blackened state
like an itch you cannot find in
the sides of your fingers where the nerves
seem strangled and sometimes feel like
it might be easier to just chop the entire bloody thing off.
these, where i wish for this pain to be a
stump. but i suppose the advantages
of ever-growing pain is you’d have severed yourself that many times
you stop feeling it.
the surging anger screaming neglect,
and i am running out of ways to
churn it into positive action, one after another
after another after another, like waves, growing
and growing until it will one day rise above
where i am paddling by shore
and swallow me whole.
i will just throw away that beaten down piece of wood
i am holding on to for dear life
and let myself sink to the sea bed
where everything is quiet and composed.
where everything finds their end.