Short Poem of Confusion

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

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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 expands,
There’s nowhere to hide.
What’s left of my personality, 
Is fixated on a rapid decay.

All rational thought is spiraling away
Into mocking clouds of dust.
My lungs are rusting shut,
Nothing escapes but a sharp clunky wheeze,
Words are either an onslaught
Of heavy nihilistic thorns of hate,
Piercing and weaving through my skin 
With jagged inscribed messages 
Of suicide,
Or 
There are no words left at all.

Every thought, feeling, or unwantedly escaped word
Is dried up under the vacuous sun
And perpetual unrest,
Looking to burn up and detonate,
To take the image of self 
And lacerate it to no end.

I’m stuck in bed,

This decomposition is years in the making. 

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