Toxic

Stumbling around, there's so much noise. I hear nothing but the buzzing in my head. How long must I breathe while others have been hurt by my own hands that I create such horrible works of art with. Will I always draw red from people's hearts and will I continue to lose my mind in a cloud of toxic mist? Will I ever find reality shining beneath a doorstep just like the morning sun? For now I live with the moon and the night. And I do not sleep but wander dream worlds, and I see monsters and visions of times past, and I remember the haunts of my trauma. There is so much gunk in my head and I cannot clean it out; nothing will take it from me but the whispering promise of Death. I am drifting between personhood and something else. A being made up of the bad and tar humanity is drenched with. There is not a drop of water to soothe the hot tar in my body. Its blackness stains the best parts of me. I do not want to make more mistakes. I do not want to talk too much, lest the specters escape me. So, can I do it? Would I do it? It is inevitable once old age sets in, so what does it matter if I leave early? The party has gone on without me and I am left here, standing on a rainy street corner, soot on my hands and face, and blood mixed in between. Through the fog comes Death's hearse and I wave a hand, filled with anxiety. It is ironic to feel so alive at Death's door. In the rain I remain, the carriage come and gone, and I look up at the sky and mourn the life I have. For all I wish is its end to ease my suffering so I may finally be at peace.

©2021 Shane Blackheart