Paranoiac

Must leave, get out,
Can’t stand it here anymore,
The voice of reason has tripled,
Duplicity gone,
And now to protect, and serve,
For what,
If not the thoughts running,
And exasperated,
Running, and craving,
Running and running,
A stop for nobody,
A stop for nothing.
Here, air, all wrong,
And stopped nothing,
I feel, damnit, feel…
Secured falsely into abyssmal
Solitude.
And here, nothing is what it seems,
An empty page, an empty thought
A full one, a full of shit.
Here, pride has been shredded to
Pissing someone off for a loaf,
Pissing someone off to get air,
Pissing someone of to get space.
There, the same questions,
The same ennui,
The same threats.
Grief risen from ashes,
Phoenix a hashed out bird.
The hallucinogens taking control
The years dopamine and neuroepinene
Transmitters; shot too much in to darkness.
Which is a blank white page.
Not the kind of knights,
The kind of papier machae
The kind of dark bright lights,
Cold hostile and taking over
Dreams that could have been
The seething rocks,
The meddling cooks,
The rising stars,
The aged beef.
Candy bars,
Are the only ones who talk,
And now seems like never,
Slipping back sliding back,
And I wonder starry eyed still,
Younger than stupidity cleared
What will be my absence of truth
What will be my absence of truth
For being ingested, digested, and diverted,
For being wholly unacceptable, too damned
Brown
To want to be anything but the priss rich whites
The powerful and gratefully hungry.
What damned pleasure is there in hearing
Cocks,
Rain,
sea breezes,
If not one time is meaningful,
Beyond the paranoia,
Of wishing for more
And wanting more,
And trapping my mind in the
Impossibly formal theory of being.
Waiting, I am exploding, timelessly,
The inheritance of my existence;
Lame, drunk on grief, and crying.
Wondering only, that time has slipped,
Off her tunic, and I am waiting to see.
I am waiting to see, mad as her, for
Anyone to light her eyes, her face, her body.
Remembering that I am thrashed by a society,
Thrashed by a law, thrashed by a state, and
Formed into little dumplings for anyone to
Meander a laugh into, bite and smile idiotically.
The grief is of the stolen heart
The lies are from everyone,
The defense is slow, perhaps, but steady,
And your love wanes in it’s nocturnes
Wanes in it’s timeliness, wanes in it’s ferocity.
Because the cold bright lights are coming,
They will inspect everything,
And who am I leaving to become,
Looking into my head, the cold bright lights are watching,
And who have I been
Looking into the bright cold lights of darkness,
There’s money to pass me by,
But not for me she says,
Not for me he says,
Not for me she says.
Powder whites, keeping me wanting to become
A busboy, a talent less junkie, a wino
But the potential is here, and the squelching of this
Spark
Is damnably unpardonable; as perhaps is a fool’s
Understanding of his love.