Man In The Radiator

This was written following a day of an extensive and painful intake exam, the question arising of being either diagnosed with bipolarity or with BPD, a long and solitary drive out to the ocean, lying awake at night in a mostly unfamiliar place staring at a gun mounted on the wall above me and a razor blade left by the kitchen sink, hoping to feel distracted, hoping to be asleep, realizing that I might always have difficulties explaining myself properly in a way that will make anyone care, and all the while trying desperately to silence specific crushing and excruciatingly loud thoughts of wanting to no longer exist. I don't know how to justify the act of continuing to live in a way that I'll accept and believe. Everything is turning more directly inward, boiling over in an incomprehensible wreck of thoughts and emotions beyond my control, and a premature escape seems imminent. But who am I to complain? This is how most people must feel, right? Anyway, this poem is shorter than

  I’m Dead, Right?  A dream response to This Mortal Coil's It'll End In Tears - The shoreline is littered  With discarded monoliths, Crumbling cliffs with acrylic rocks  Bursting out of the canvas And stuck, jagged and bloodied, out of my dreaming head, Where songs transmit from an easel stretched over living flesh That pulsates and vibrates with crashing waves of sounds, Writhing upwards within. The heartbeat is dying, I’m left on the shore, Slowly fading out after every solemn, calculated beat, Until it dissolves and washes away  Into the gnawing great red eye  Of the bisected painted sun.  I’m all but dust beneath.  The sky splits open Overlapping, crescendoing voices endlessly muttering Guiding needles of hypnagogic messages, Stirring winds and teeth-chattering seraphim  All descend upon me With fist-fulls of radio-wire And dissects my sleep Leaving me to struggle to inhale the polluted bouts of air That makes up my last breath. I can’t even begin to tell where it all went