“Everything in it’s place”

When do I know I’ve gone too far?
How many more times will I twist
This knife in my chest before
Letting the handle go?

Where will I run next?
Where can I go when my bridges are aflame
And I can hardly see through the smoke?

How…
How will this finally end?
What will they say when it does?
What will I?

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Thoughts from the edge

I want to cloak myself in silence.

I want to be alone in a universe of my own,

To exist with no one –

The first being

Or the last.

 

I think:

Maybe if I tilt my soul so some of the madness leaks into their own atmospheres they will begin to understand,

when their undisturbed galaxies have a few

of my burning planets.

But I attempt to speak and

A tangled mess falls from my lips and we all stare as it hangs there in the air…

What choice exists but to shove it away while I have some dignity left?

 

I beg again and again for silence,

for peace,

for escape,

for time that should be mine yet

 

In the same breath that I wish I no longer had to exist

I must remind myself I don’t have that option.

In the same breath that I wish they could understand

I must understand why they cannot.

 

I sit with my feet stretched over the edge

Further over it than anyone seems to realize,

More in need to control how quickly I will fall than I have ever been.

 


“I think only of you”

“I think only of you”

And I will choke on all your good intentions
as I fall deeper still,
and forget how to breathe
having lost my will,
doing that which I abhor
in pursuit of when I wanted more.

But time
and it’s persistent ticking,
and obsessive compulsion to go forward
stays as fundamentally unchangeable as it always has,
and I am dull at the edges…
bitter where I’ve lost my bite
pen leaving scratches where it no longer bleeds – a shell of itself
held by the shell that is me,
tanks nearing empty
too far beneath the sea

Radio Silence

White Noise.
Static.
No feedback.
Manic.

Call to base,
call to self –
No Answer
Panic.

No falling
just crashing.
The Nightmare.
The Carnage.

Mr. Jekyll,
Mr. Hyde,
Final Battle.
Final Torment.

No voices.
No madness.
More sacrificies
in silence…

No recall
yet
of the drug-induced
defiance.

See-r,
Believer,
does the crystal ball
scare you?

Does the
blood
on your table
call forth an old taboo?

Sit,
wringing your hands
and calling out to –
who?

White Noise.
Static.
No Feedback.
Radio Silence