is starting to get to me
an onset of
Stockholm cabin fever
where I'm chained
to the root of this
bourgeoning and
furthering insanity
I have taken to
singing surreal songs
aloud and alone
on mundane things
I'm doing
Lynchian takes on
pointless tasks
I'm not sure if it
was the drugs
or the isolation
that found me
having a full blown
narrative conversation
at 5:30 am that lasted til
7 in the morning
7 in the morning
7 in the morning
I've been comfortably
medicated more often
but never is it enough
to hold ghosts at bay
doing reckless things
on strange combinations
trying to soak it all in
struggling to figure
it out, getting so
caught up in my head
wrapped around
being warped
contemplating considerable
damage that no hands
could ever repair
at 3am your demons
find you home alone
they are vast
you are vulnerable
the walls may not hold
as the distractions
grow smaller
sporadic off-key
drug usage and the
infrequent, short
visits you get
can only make a dent
in the grand scheme of
minutes ticking vs
time alone
in a half empty house
with limited entertainment forever
and a quickly moving
Sell-By date
every hour I can feel my
resolve continue to
dissolve and I begin
to give in to
watever anxiety
this place is projecting
every bump I jump
middle of the night
waiting out the devil
tho I careless about
my soul to take
I got it on a street corner
it's jus a convincing fake
shaking hands with fate
always the sense of
imposing doom
a death by wait
wandering your home
as if you had
never been there
photographs of someone
else's family
in a time
that no longer exists
jus these keepsakes
and snapshots for the
mostly faded memories
more of a memorial
than memorabilia
days gone bye
and the quick yet
somehow gradual
passage of time
where did the party
really go?
The fun this
family had
it has dwindled
and withered bare
seems less than a
whole speck remains
being replaced by
everyone rotting inside
now it's jus
a little faster
the constant uphill
battle, being fought
by the ill equipped
who know the scale
will never tip
there's more empty pill
bottles left behind here
than there was ever
silverware and cutlery
a testament to the
agonizing decay
of the body
and our will to live
hanging on by a thread
the pain of life has all
of us from here suffering
its spirit haunting
the walls and woodwork
the essence hovering
spitting back your
negative energy
feeding on your
continual decline
greeting the sun
almost every night
but who needs to rest?
you're far too busy
becoming slowly
sadly possessed
fucked up but not high
doing stranger things
out loud asking why
then giving an answer
and getting it wrong
all along, this home
watched us die
