Seeds of Torment.

Sweat bleeds from trembling skin,
shaky fingers digging
into a head housing a mind lost, spinning again

scratching memories, hitting the books,
bloody skin beneath fingernails, exposed bones of my fists,
all in search for a solvent, a cure for the plague
of haunting questions, the secrets
you buried deep in the rich soils of mind,

forever seeking
closure to bring on the next chapter
as through my mangled webwork I meander,
hopelessly tangled, lost in this space
as the clock winds down.

All of your whispers echo through time,
culminate in the soundtrack to my waste of a life.
Belief is of no interest, I need to know,
denied this understanding that could help guide my growth
all while I have embraced this stagnation
my path of uncertainty earned
smothering in my frustration,
locked in obsession,
morbid and motionless,
drunk on my shame, high on denial.

Need to break out, the only way through.
I need to wake up, chew through my cocoon.

Sick with need, tormented by
the erosion of patience,
the absence of reason,
the aching seeds in my mind
awaiting their season.

Tangled in the Wireless.

Wireless access
behind four walls,
drawn shades,
a locked door:

here thrives
the thinly-masked life
of the sociophobic
attention whore.

Must sublimate
to reconcile
these determined internal
contradictions,
diametrically-opposing drives,
dueling dualities swirling within,
deadlocked or teeter-tottering
betwixt polar extremes.

Hungry for spotlight
though afraid
to be seen at the same time,
let him rant like mad
at the deaf, dance naked
before the blind.

Try to balance out,
pacify
through a higher space
situated above
and between an impenetrable
rock and proverbial
hard place,
then it all breaks down
beneath guilt’s weight
in a midnight crisis,
in an apocalypse of identities.

The fear,
ever-lingering.
All that those little monsters
whispered
to him throughout his life,
echoing
in the shadows
as he continues to race
through time.

Here a cancer is fed.
Self-awareness breeds
self-contempt.

Half for the showing,
half for what is revealed
in open lines and letters
of personal confession,

bled drop by drop
through ink and pixel
piecing together
this ghastly reflection,
this growing translation
offered to their eyes
as he force-feeds his own,

pushing through the nausea
with the strength
of the commitment characterizing
the self-involved,
reaching through the tension
fingers slithering
for an antidote.

Gone Dark.

Cyclonic emotions.
Lost to the eye.
Torn by the wind,
such relentless violence.

This storm
in my mind, sight blurred
by sheets of rain
as shadows consume.

It’s gone dark:
I’m not blind.

Still, scale me down
in your eyes, a madman
condemned to the ground
by his own foolish ways.

You see me as cold.
Just touch me to find
I’m burning inside.
Walls collapsing again.
Weather that never subsides.

Itching for the sun.
Hungry for true life.
Trapped, such a slave
to a place I’ve never
felt I belong.

Driving Me Blindly.

Womb to tomb
descending through spacetime
direction fixed, weaving a wordline
in the free fall of causality
on my way

down from heights of order
to the tangled depths of entropy

to add to the mesh of roots
prepackaged,
vacuum-sealed in opaque plastic,
nonetheless clearly
well-woven in me,
driving me blindly.

Always falling,
eyes hypnotized
straight ahead, drifting up
now and again, just,
please,
never look down,
half fearing, half hoping
for ground that you might eventually
think you found in an impact
approximately six feet down

though you find the grave is bottomless
forever falling through all of this
in a style naively echoing every preceding
dead again, back to skin
round of shit.