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


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.
No feedback.

Call to base,
call to self –
No Answer

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
of the drug-induced

does the crystal ball
scare you?

Does the
on your table
call forth an old taboo?

wringing your hands
and calling out to –

White Noise.
No Feedback.
Radio Silence