i don’t know
what i expect anymore
everything is
monumentally
difficult
when my brain
is always working
against me
and the fucking thing
never rests

it gets too quiet
the voice purrs
we pick apart pixels
seeking waves of
dissonance
rippling across
placid illusions

it gets dizzying
chasing
circular fallacies
of your own creation
let loose
a pack of scampering
feral dogs
still enough wolf
to fear the furless

too goddamned old
to make a
compelling suicide
too immature
to really
understand that though
a dessicated husk
trying to make myself
bleed
just to feel
beauty once more

the only thing
worse
than a goddamn poet
is one become
self aware
black holes
ever hungering
dying slow enough
to describe the minutiae
in a series of
failing odes
to uncertain
expectations