in which i fall

 

 

 

 

 

 

coughing up my tiger blood,

i should have maybe asked for help,

when phones weren't an arm's length

and several lifetimes away.

 

a break in insanity,

may have helped me just a little,

because there's nothing left, here,

for me.

 

because i've dried up almost everything.

 

there's a fetid puddle somewhere,

covered in bloated, noisey flies,

who'd love to eat my eyeballs,

if i ever ventured just too close.

 

and the scenes are growing hazy,

just as i hear a clatter and a shriek,

as my fat and angry servant,

discovers my disease.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

a few small references to one charlie sheen and some ideas from my own tortured mind.

Reviews

[arlery]

Well written. There's something about dark poetry that always intrigues me to read on, and yours is a perfect example of that.

[Nobody.]

really well done. I don't have anything clever to say...just...WOW! Great dark venture into the addicted psyche and the giant and constant fears that go with such an addiction. Cheers!