Man In The Radiator

What's there left to say? Reality is overwhelming sadistic and I, once again, find myself utterly lost in the search for a reason why I have to submit to the dirge of existence. Although, that's not entirely true. There is something that is keeping me here, satiating my impossibly grand need for validation and purpose, something to make me properly feel. But it is never that simple, never that easily obtainable or easy to maintain and keep close, and always acts as a terrifying reminder of the recent past that has all but severed my sanity and utterly dismembered my ability to put my trust in others. However, as time slowly progresses I feel like my usual overly bleak outlook on all things is being tested - which is a terrifying and strange notion for me to grapple with, but is most likely a good thing all the same. It's still difficult and all is not quite there and is filled to the brim with agonizing unknowns. Nothing is simple ever. I suppose the following nonsense conf

 My well of creativity has once again dried up. Writing seems to be an insurmountable task of supreme stress, pressure, and effort. I deeply despise how unpredictable creativity can be, I deeply despise how limited I am in my own writing, and I deeply despise how incapable I am of surrendering to the craft of writing. My mind feels polluted, my body feels like murky leaden silver slowly drifting through my veins, the world around me has long since been drained of color and inspiration, and there's nothing left but uncontrollable and unwanted nightmares of violence.  "The dreamer is still dreaming." I guess I am stating all of this as a nonsense preamble to explain away why the following poem is truly terrible, uncreative, and unnecessarily violent. Even writing this feels like a chore, and finishing this poem felt like I had to populate my insides with a multitude of tiny fish hooks and put all of my lack of strength into heaving out these words in a halfway sensical and

 This is a personal one, but all my writing is after all. I don't have much to say, this maybe isn't one for sharing publically but where exactly do I draw that line? It is a dedication poem. To a place, to a person. to certain feelings that overwhelm to the point of delirium and panic. But that's not necessarily a bad thing. I truly tried something different with this poem, although it might not appear that way. And in the end, I couldn't help but return to a more depressing sentiment. After all, it often feels like that is all that there is to return to. All that truly stays and remains consistent and reliable. There's nothing but the loss of self in the chaos of the world around us and the ensuing isolation that will take us all. I hope I'm wrong. That's it for now.  “Pass me that lovely little gun, My dear, my darling one.”  - Nick Cave North Adams, Massachusetts  There’s music piping  Out of the smeared guts of roadkill Descending into dis