I'm frantic, scribbling frustrations onto bleeding paper
Do we punch walls to punish them or break them down?
Or to break our fists?
In nervous delusion, we curl back up in our eggs
In anxious departure, I expose my skin in an animalistic tear
Slits appear on my back and a feathery web stretches out like a drawn arrow
I rocket upwards
I don't care where this tunnel ends
I don't think it does
Everything around me is the same
And I watch it all turn into cosmic specs of dust
Only in death, the explosive scream after fuses of anxiety and frustration hit 0, will we be calm
The life-awaiting are counting down to my death
I will, with all might and fury, throw these fists into my drying clay
I will strike even when my arms burn in dying exhaustion, like the smoker desperately suckling the last bits of tobacco clinging to the filter (the filter is where they keep the heroin)
And when the hot smoke of burning cotton forbids the air to nurture my lungs, is when my heart may rest in peace