Short Poem Calling Upon the End

 Time doesn't fix anything. It's all inescapable and impossible to stop. My brain is in a murky soup of lithium and whatever the hell else they have me on now. At night it makes me lightheaded and dizzy, I'm starting to struggle to see straight. During the day it makes me feel nauseous and nonexistent, flickering through an invisible and painful schism in reality. My mind is elsewhere, my creativity is gone, I'm trying to hold on to something here but it all goes away. I don't know what I'm saying anymore, here's a new poem. 

Let This Be the End

What is this thing

That is thinking of me?

What is this thing

That is creeping from within my bed

And making crimson fountains

From my limbs? 

What is this,

Swelling wildly 

In the maelstrom of my gut?

Engorging my veins 

And growing out from my chest

Like anemic opium fields 

With weeping decapitations

Weighing down the spindly, blackened stems.

What is this voice 

Drowning me under

Smouldering waterfalls of poisoned lavender 

And floating cadavers

Perfumed with patchouli? 

What is this swirling sadness? 

Annihilating every last step I take

Overtaking the circumradius dawn 

With the sickness of immobility,

Self-starvation,

Nauseating odes to lithium,

Entrapment within enigmas of great machinery

Powered through oceans of bile

And illegible prescription pads.  

What is this…

That is burying your sallow, lightless face,

Burning up your sinking, naked body

Transmitting, enfolded in gashes,

Fading away 

Beyond my frenzied hysterical grasp? 

What is this 

Droning disease of limping existence

That is causing you to disappear?

Your voice no longer makes a sound

Your form no longer holds any shape

Your smile withered and dropped 

To the windswept cemetery dirt

Tooth by disintegrating tooth,

You no longer run ephemeral 

And toxicological

Through the desecrated caverns,

Tenebrous chambers of disillusionment

You left dug into my skull.

What is this temporal force,

Pinning my memories to the wall?

What is this that is painting my flesh,

And forcing stigmatas 

Leaving me bloodlet and intoxicated 

Against my true love’s dead ruins?

Your imploding visage follows,

Cracking my head back 90 degrees,

Canines pulled and filed, 

Gums stuffed with injectors and speaker wire,

Synapses interlocked, 

Irrevocably coiled around your carnival of disorders,

Chemical rain and dead leaves 

Fill my blackened, lump-covered lungs

Like storm clouds careening 

Through my fragile plaster mold,

Unseen and unfinished 

Operated by an inescapable desire

For love and self-destruction,

What am I now? 

What is this thing,

This consuming, silent feeling,

An uncontrollable procession of carnal madness

Your name shredding in the wind, 

That is keeping your influence

To forever dwell and consume me?

With my meager, abandoned existence

Under the shifting shadows 

And the army of dead butterflies

Flitting from your tiny, distended fingers,

[I miss your blood],

I call upon this incorporeal nothing

To keep you tragically close. 

Even after you unfairly succumb

To the decaying voids of memories,

I’ll still hold on to whatever I can of you.

What is this?

That is forcing my hand,

That is making me want to call out

To the one who severed me from my world, 

To rip open my keloids 

Pluck out each of my eyes

And rend my infinitesimal morsel of a heart  

For you to come back to me.

Come to me

And

Slash my wrists. 

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