Pseudopsychosis.

Stare at the ceiling,

I am an afterthought,

dreams cast

forgotten memories

in twilight’s tongue

rivaling alone

the silence of the world

that pretends to be still,

when it’s

fucking not;

I wake in the room alone,

I intend to sleep;

in weakness, the oeuvre is loneliness

as it slips

bloodily on begotten words

undefined

to fragile oaths

in dark’s pariah

in a mistrusted world;

I gorge no more words

from my psyche

but I hunger

and I born

through mind and liberty,

emptiness, rage,

and cooled scars

by disarray, the throbbing

of spring

shamed by the mirror’s

distortion,

shackled to the ebbs

alone

to shadows

to silence in the end;

I gorge no more words

from my psyche.

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