The hands of a clock
He couldn't scream because the world wouldn’t stop screaming at him. He couldn’t concentrate on falling. He was standing on his back on a hard mattress. Deep breaths sprang from him. His lungs shuddered in and out. The walls of his chest caving in and regrouping. His eyes stung.
The world gets potent. Only the worst of people can take it. The rest of us break down and scream for existence. We scream as loud as we can at heaven at earth at hell at each other at the nothing inside of atoms. Because none of it seems fair. Everything we see just seems acidic and dripping. Dreams running through the sewer of the world. The ecstasy of millions replaced instead by teen pregnancies child soldiers poverty wealth genocide war heresy
bad poetry.
The feces that their dreams make. Coming out of the asshole of fucking everything as we scream so loud that some poor boy can’t sleep.
And that boy rose out of his bed and walked into the kitchen his parents still locked away by dreams. His bare feet touched the tile. His breaths became more jagged and the stinging in his eyes only got worse.
There are no bad people he realized. No good ones either.
And he poured himself a glass of water and drank it down and went back to bed. Still unable to sleep he took out a pen and started writing.
He wrote everything he could think of.
And then he stopped.
And with his entire brain sitting in front of him he read it all back. And when he was writing he could see all the connections but when he read it to himself it all sounded like nonsense. He felt so stupid. Everything he had to offer was so asinine and childish. So belligerent. So blunt. So petty.
And he tossed his pillow across the room, left it out for the mice, and laid back in his bed and sank into pieces and dreams.
He couldn't scream because the world wouldn’t stop screaming at him. He couldn’t concentrate on falling. He was standing on his back on a hard mattress. Deep breaths sprang from him. His lungs shuddered in and out. The walls of his chest caving in and regrouping. His eyes stung.
The world gets potent. Only the worst of people can take it. The rest of us break down and scream for existence. We scream as loud as we can at heaven at earth at hell at each other at the nothing inside of atoms. Because none of it seems fair. Everything we see just seems acidic and dripping. Dreams running through the sewer of the world. The ecstasy of millions replaced instead by teen pregnancies child soldiers poverty wealth genocide war heresy
bad poetry.
The feces that their dreams make. Coming out of the asshole of fucking everything as we scream so loud that some poor boy can’t sleep.
And that boy rose out of his bed and walked into the kitchen his parents still locked away by dreams. His bare feet touched the tile. His breaths became more jagged and the stinging in his eyes only got worse.
There are no bad people he realized. No good ones either.
And he poured himself a glass of water and drank it down and went back to bed. Still unable to sleep he took out a pen and started writing.
He wrote everything he could think of.
And then he stopped.
And with his entire brain sitting in front of him he read it all back. And when he was writing he could see all the connections but when he read it to himself it all sounded like nonsense. He felt so stupid. Everything he had to offer was so asinine and childish. So belligerent. So blunt. So petty.
And he tossed his pillow across the room, left it out for the mice, and laid back in his bed and sank into pieces and dreams.
