My Thoughts Are Vile

Weird, anxious poem I wrote when I couldn't go to sleep hiking at King's Canyon, CA.

I am a disconnected remnant of the idea of happiness

trapped in my own hell of anxiety and despair

forever cut of from my dreams

forced to compensate with substitutions

perversions of true joy

a black pestilence cloud looms overhead

poisoning me and mocking my futility.

I am caught between sparks of dying passion

and the overwhelming desire to sleep

I sleep to avoid the world

I sleep to avoid the harm it brings me

delusional as to the idea of hope

a lack of energy from a lack of steady footing.

Is true love dead?

I tell myself not to think so

I tell myself that thoughts of defeat

are in their own self, self-defeating

But I can’t help but notice the death

the death and the dying around me

I can’t help but notice the reoccurring notions

that seem more true with every recollection.

The more I become connected to myself

the more the filth that plagues my thoughts

rises to the surface and finds it’s way on paper

Do I give into this sickness for the sake of art?

There is no poison that needs to be ingested

I bring plagues with the mention of truth

disgusting truth disguising itself as deadness

a mask of lukewarm catatonia

that hides the roaring tempest

that covers the miasma of my being.