Down below: so volatile,
a maelstrom
of internal violence. Guilt,
fear or rage:
uncertain.
Memory: taken
from me once again. Hungry
mental need
for understanding left
starving and thirsty,
hope for enlightenment
now dimming, dying.
So it goes.
Carrying on. Plowing
forward
despite it: regardless…
If my history — both
the certain
and questionable —
has taught
me anything
it’s that even being lost
and empty
won’t stop me, can’t kill
me. It’s never over.
Never ends.
Death and rebirth
keep spinning, contaminating,
bleeding into one
another so fucking naturally.
Even in the wake
of bloodshed, carnage
of which I am a victim,
I’m there, observing,
ever-eager
to cycle back again,
despite
how dumb and dizzy
these suffering
circles, spirals,
clearly make me.
All the while,
deep down
knowing
there is nothing to fear
but this anxiety
itself, so aware
that it’s infintely stupid,
silly and futile
as shit, just serving
as positive feedback
to the emotional impact
conjured and ensared
in the romantic, erotic
relationship
betwixt
this chaotic world
and my hypersensitive soul
circumstance manifest in an epic
panic attack
kept at bay, stored so deep below,
so for now,
I can encase
it in an interrogation
room in my mind and watch
it from a height
through a one-sided mirror,
dispassionately,
and frantically take notes,
all in the hope
that intellect might hit
its target
through this subsequent
dissection,
aggressive analysis
of a strange,
dark mood, promising
persistence…
I persist.
Digging deeper.
Faith in nothing save
the fact
that ultimately
I will
find my avenue
to answers.