Death Indoors.

I am sick.

With death and fate and god’s illegal use of power.

He doesn’t care.

How could he?

He barely knows. Or thinks or sees.

I live alone.

In hedges by the roadside. In forest unseen.

You see the ghost that crumbles.

Of a shallow grave.

& I am sick.

I have been defeated. Again. Only this time by a simple clock.

One that tells the time & lies.

It breaks my heart and laughs and throws it’s shitty hands up and says ’oh what? Did you seek illusion?’

& I reply in tears.

Frustrated collapse that ends in drugs.

I pity myself. & anger flows.

A ritual you will see again in time & time & time & time again.

My life you see.

Circle of doubt. Of fear. Of broken phallic illusions.

All dreams gone.

So I hold the gun against my head. I clock the hammer.

I hold my breath and pull.

God hates me. That’s all I know.

I worship death.

For who cares what resides within a shell shocked heart?

A quiet night.

Failure announced at the door. A reliable friend.

I cannot but play the song again.

For I might as well lose myself in the well of paine and angst.

& Fill the bath and drown insane.

As Night closes in and the moon walks by.

~ I am pretty shit at many things. & dreams are always defeated.

© Ed Simkins

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