Man In The Radiator

 These were two separate poems I hastily wrote down with no real idea of what to make of them or how to continue them or how to make them any good at all. I expanded on each a bit and combined them, which probably doesn't work - I'm still not sure what I am going for here, but that doesn't matter. Nothing adds up, my brain is surely disintegrating from prescribed chemical interference and my writing has suffered because of it. What I can manage to write palls in comparison to what I used to be able to write, but then again, what I used to be able to write sucks too. Living each day indefinitely until I'm fully decrepit and old doesn't seem worth it. I don't know what I'm living for. Creating means nothing, people around me mean nothing, I can't sleep, my dreams are hellish reminders of everything I'm struggling with, and I go on here to complain to no one at all. Sometimes I look at pictures of napalm victims and simultaneously realize that I have no

This was written earlier this month with the idea to expand it into a bigger, more realized poem about something else entirely. Although, while looking back on it, I don't think I can add much without it seeming too disconnected. Even though I think this one, in particular, is quite bad, I'll leave it as is. I rarely if ever write poems that are this short.  But I feel as if my mind is deteriorating more and more each day and focusing too much on one particular project will cause me to unintentionally make it worse. I need to be working on multiple things at once or else I will collapse into my thoughts and not ever return. I don't know how much longer I want to keep this up. Anyway, here's the poem; A Personal Apocalypse - A newfound existential entrapment Envelops the world’s tiresome scenery It’s all static noise in my head And every experience, And pharmaceutical intervention, Further pushes the question, Of what I am. I’m less human by the day, The hole in my head