Poem: Cliche Psychoanalytical diatribe #18

Eat me, because I’m being swallowed
Let me rot, because I don’t want to bloom

Endless references to death in everything i do
every move i make an attempt to reflect death honing in on me

Sleeping till noon,
but waking at 3am
sweating from nightmares of my own death.
the image of driving a car at 100mph
and wrapping it around a pole
dying in a fiery blaze,
like James Dean
stains my retinas,
like the bleach that tore out Eva Smith’s stomach.

My mental uncertainty
is the only thing real
anymore.
Shutting myself off from everyone, is a new high.

I will consume transgressions
in isolation.
divorcing my emotions;
letting my absence remove me from the conversation-thought-process leaving no one with second-thoughts

got myself feeling thankful but still hateful.
So don’t get optimistic.

The diatribe has to end in formal
cohesion,
yet i haven’t got time to even write ‘cohesion’ down anymore. time just won’t stop dragging on,
like every line i put down.

keeping
my existence as waste
my thoughts as debris.
hopeless, lounging on an unmade bed
with a philosophy, that leaves me so numb a knife to my wrists wouldn’t hurt.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s