My Inner Thoughts and Demons

After a while seek cover in your grave.

Tell her to visit, i’m in the graveyard.

To learn the ways of the dead.

My face scabbed to a hard rusty shell, burning, skin scuffed off in bloody wafers.

The doctor said my face needed to rip from different directions.

It took three of them to hold me down.

They just think you’re bad news, trouble, now deeply held beliefs.

Blood fell like tears on my face and trickled from my wrists and hair.

I wondered how you knew just where to find me.

A smile…

Of all the ways I expected to die, this seemed the least likely.

As tectonic skull plates changed position, dilating blood vessels tore, brain canals broke, veins whipped open.

Exploding finally and washing a cascade of wreckage.

Past hope, dismantled, humanity had to use a desperate measure.

Change our lifestyle, be the envy of everyone.

Lack of sophistication disappointed me.

The things that had happened, I’d lost count over the last few days.

I’d twice and triple checked.

I don't really care though.

I lost control.

Stealing, only seemed to intensify the unhealthy for many adults.

There were people trying to get away.

I think it was a fuss to hide in such a disgusting environment,

Pushing, I think, was a compliment and always the desired response.

I was so worried about the possibility of temptation, I didn't sleep, and made certain, it didn't happen.

Bitterly, halfway through the evening, wailing came.

Repeatedly bashing me on the head with a hammer, but refused to stop hitting me, saying I should stop being so sensitive.

Two men ended up having a violent fight.

I don't know the real memory of this traumatic event,

Repeating,

Aware, they’d crept into life unnoticeably.

Now normal things looked dim.

It had begun against thoughts and an image had come to mind.

Before the thought had been banished, this girl, dead on the road.

Perhaps life made it impossible sometimes.

Caught up in quietness, as if none of those years had in fact occurred.

This might be the beginning of the end, but it might be so painless.

Feeling useless; man, the liberation army.

A younger version of you, acting like a moron, and a lifelong abyss of misdirection.

Something is being lost, yet there are still bodies moving and talking, passing out of the world.

Trickling transitions, silent, are naturally servile enough to disappear there and here.

Misdirection and anger, or intelligent scorn, moods without weather.

The utter sadness of generations not knowing how to love.

But it was not that way at all.