Dirty Razor Resurrection
My mortality is staring me down,
a bolt of fire, stopping me in my tracks,
every time I see the flashing exit sign,
each day that I pass that pipe on the ceiling
(so strongly attached, it couldn't break)
Staring me down with razor sharp conviction,
inspiring razor sharp terror to slice,
right through me,
stealing my breath, I watch as it begins to slither out, away from me.
Thieves made of mist (in my head, they say)
pick-pocketing my center of hope,
my center of made up truths that I'm working on becoming my reality...whatever that is,
taking my ticket to paradise (it's all in my head, they say)
All my imagination, schizo-paranoid filled terror,
self-sabotage because my loneliness, to you, is supposed to mean
unhappiness. . .emptiness.
There are some of them, the pockets of my self,
burned of their capacity that I'd given so freely, blindly,
no hopes of getting it back.
Simultaneously in the best and worst shape of my life,
grappling with the varying truths of me,
while I struggle t