I'm sick
it seems,
sick & sick
with soul.

So old,
words on parchment,
pen and inkwell
close by my elbow, splotches
and scraggly spider-scrawl.

I hate them.

I do,
I mean it now, yet,
Why won't you hold my hand?

So simple,
no fire,
cold wind
whistling through
vowels and punctuation
crying life,
like the Bidwell Ghost;
apples rotten
and flowers flaring
with strange
remorse.

All I want
is to hurt you
(all of you
all of you,
look how
MEAN
I can be);
Hit you until your faces
are ashy and your lips
bruised.

No teeth to smile,
tongue too swollen
to tell me I'm
right.

...

Have I
always been this
mad?

My angst is
dyed corn-syrup sludging through
my hands and my feet and
my blue, knotty veins;
manufactured,
processed.

This is no lie;
I have done no wrongs,
but,
I am fading.

These keys
these "inspirations"
are cold. Are lifeless,
gore gone Disney,
fire turned to neon lights.

Unreal.

But, I try!
I put forth
my best effort with
enthusiasm and tears
and
all I can hear is a
crocodile's clock, this sharp
tick-tick-
ticking
behind my back.

That's alright.
I'm still young, anyway.

I passed through the veil,
and the whispers on the
other side
were only reruns
from your television set.

---

Criticism would be much appreciated.