Tuesday, September 4, 2012

An Unfinished Poem I Wrote In The Mental Hospital

I told myself if it ever came to this that I would bleed oceans

But my heart isn't pumping anything worth swimming in

Just a few gallons of leftover tar and some noxious fumes

Everything moves so slow now it's like love's organs

Frozen enough to make you want to sleep for decades

This is the holocaust for the insomniac

Who wonders the alleyways of their own brain

Trying to find a dead stray to use as a blanket or cushion

The people behind the padded walls seem so nice

Though I probably don't deserve what they're giving

My only justifiable possession is a trash can overflowing with doubt

That spills on me whenever I try to set it on fire

Possibly out of fear that I would burn the world to nothing

A personal apocalypse can happen more than once and often does

Which is what Murphy probably thought when he drafted his law

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