Hysteria
Layers enshroud me.
Layers of emotional discontent.
Layers of self-destruction.
Layers of outer disgust.
They cover my work and me.
They taint it.
It must be raw.
My bulky shadow is thrown across the even snow
Etched into the night by artificial light
Like synthetic praise that is not deserved
That thrusts you upon an inappropriate pedestal
Without understanding or comprehension
I slough some layers off
But there is still one that I can not
My sillouhette is slimmer, more humane
But still not me
A warm burst of steam erupts from my mouth
A similar haze blocks my senses and suffocates me from the inside out
A haze of intolerable pain of looking into the eyes of the childish insecurities and stupid idiosyncrasies of adolescence.
Inhaling and exhaling . . .
Thoughts attack me from behind the murky fog . . .
Who Am I?
What Am I?
Why Am I here?
Delayed Gratification,
Realization,
Responsibility,
Is this all for real?
Why do theories make sense when they do not pertain to us?
Why do we insist on making rules that we do not follow?
And those who do follow the rules are slaughtered by their own loyalty;
What is the point?
I would much rather disintegrate into the crust of the earth than face it.
The Drone.
That thing that drives us on like battered beasts in a winter storm.
Work must be done for its satisfaction.
Inhaling the freezing bitterness of truth,
Exhaling the feverish cloud of acknowledgement.
