there are three phases to me, like i am a power conduit slapping in a mud puddle, angrily lashing out invisibly to a world that forgot i was here

the first phase

the best phase

is beauty in everything, a sublime feeling of synchronicity, all has a purpose and falls into place

the second phase is doubt

the worst phase

i second guess every move, analyze and vivsect it all, examine and perform an autopsy on the still kicking body unaware i am killing it with every penetrating incision

the third phase

where i am today

is destruction

i dread this phase

but relish the idea

lighting the fuse and standing in the center as it all implodes, showering me with the wet pieces of a life half lived, only to find myself in a crater and no idea how to climb back out

this crater only goes deeper as the house of cards i build grows flimsier as i search for ground level and call that a win

can you see me down here

ranting and spitting and red in the face

stomping on the remains of what remained from the last time i couldn’t bare to remain

now and then a feather falls lazily and i stare up in wonder and curiously question if it is a sign

then a billboard falls and nearly crushes me with ten foot high letters that read

no

so phase three of three commence

red numbers counting down slowly as i sprinkle accelerants on every bit of me

flicking the lighter open and closed

ready

my only wish is as it burns i could sit and talk to you