everything feels
granular
as if time is just
an echo
transitionary
in frantic gulps

i tear holes through
reality with gnarled
hands and sheer spite
spitting venom into
the fresh hells brought
forth by self defeat

if everyone is the hero
in their own tale
yet i villify myself
does that mean that maybe
somewhere out there
someone has made me a hero
only so i can let them

down

everything feels so
granular
indescribably dense
but built on the sand
and high tide is
barrelling forth

every set of skid marks
i pass on the highway
is one of my failed attempts
i die over and over again
learning nothing but to
memorize the patterns with
no true interaction
i don’t believe in fate
or predestiny but i know
somehow, somewhere that
i royally fucked things up

they say that
kharma is a bitch
but she only
made you one because of
your refusal to see
the truth
plain as day
kharma is the grit
in the vaseline
reminding you that
you are still alive
and fucking things up
well enough on your own

maybe i have become
granulated
a series of pebbled flaws
caltrops left to rust
a continuation of
a morbidly bland
set of reoccurring
circumstances
growing more indistinct
the more it tears away
the flesh of wonder