05 June, 2012

. . .

This hole I am in now
is like so many others
that others have made.
This hole I dug from the Earth
and sometimes I don't care that
I made my own grave.

I resurrect every morning.
I fight disocciation
Seige apathy
and fight the good fight.
As I look for work
trying to pull out of this suffocation.

I hold tight
that's when my heart stutters

fears take over
and all too often
they win
laying waste as i sit in, shuttered

The voices
tell me "die"
I hear them, and I,

to die would ease some pain
and heighten others.

Remaining trapped.
No prisoner.
No Kafka.
Not lost because I exit only in the wind
Shell of fear and paranoia
Echo of escapist depression,
disocciative fantasy
a fantasy that is no longer my heroin(e)

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