Written from a hole. Cramped in a shell…I have to pour these words somewhere in order to create more room for chaos.
The numbness that is typically reserved for those deserving, has spread to others and without intention. A recognized need for self-care and mental and emotional attention is before me…but knowing the mud, blood, and filth that awaits in the journey of healing – combined with a deep falling in order to climb back up is not something to look forward to. But to climb out of this hole, and be able to look down into it…with the worms, dark secrets and pieces of self would be a major summit in a minor life.
The reclusiveness that is reserved for blunt trauma is upon me, as a cold wet blanket and as much as i want to talk and reach out, i want to be left alone to lay. In my walking coma. Amongst others. Smiling. The darkness that is growing that I try to kill with matches, burn my fingers. The soft scent of smoke comforts me as something familiar and finite. I want to get lost in music…in heavy bass-lines and mood-shifting chord progressions. No one has played the music I long to hear. No one has spoken the words i long to hear.
Written from a hole, deep in my sole. Cramped in a shell. I have poured words here. And now more chaos is here.