How do I reconcile self loathing with the dreams I still have?
I’m utterly terrified of my minds mangled mess,
Two living shadows in my head,
and I do not know whether they’re women or men,
Yet they live for me in films without prompted thought,
Of whether I’ve lived or died and the fruit I wrought,
Tears or smiles, fires or pyres,
Oh, where will this dread end?
Or when will this dead end?
Lost in a purgatorious fog,
I am left to wonder the blunders of my life,
Whether I’ll brave the sunrise again,
Or sit and wait,
For what Darkness takes in my chagrin,
I do not know, the loss is mine,
But how much loss is worth my time?
In childish wordplay,
I try to convey my hurt,
How stupid and quaint my vanity is,
This poem’s voice too hollow,
Like me, an empty shell of echoes,
I wallow in the winds of my skull,
Screaming demons of vapid void,
Whose great nothings haunt me,
My welts, their tongues,
Purple tipped poison spurs,
They steal my breaths, my words, my thoughts,
And leave only twisted cogs of wasted clocks,
The mud of ash sticks in black clusters to my fingers,
I wipe my eyes as I weep,
Unsure of what I’m doing,
Comes the poignant thought,
That I have no idea