Man In The Radiator

  I feel as if I am possessed by a divine sickness. A sickness with some sort of guiding philosophy far and above my own tired, mute, ineffectual understanding of this existence. This whole month has been dire, this whole year has been dire, and somehow last year was still worse. And the year before that started off in a fevered state of elation and surreal, unrecognizable happiness despite the stress, uncertainty, sickness, decay, and doom that was already digging craters out of my skull and sinking me into planned, conspiratorial oblivion. My words fail, wheeze pathetically, curl up, and die all around me. Reaching out is pointless. Communication gets more difficult by the day. Inconsistently taking multiple medications has turned my head into a mire bobbing with corpses upon corpses that shriek and send the stars down upon me at every step. My words are shattered and this life was never meant to be lived. The following “poem” is an excerpt, an unfinished failure, something I onc...

When I set out to write this, there was no plan other than trying to do something slightly different. And by different, I mean trying to separate it from myself. To not use "I" or "you" and fall into the same old trappings of writing another poem about my previous failures and past events that have yet to stop haunting me. However, this isn't really all that different at all. I have written about all of this before, many times before. It is always a new apocalypse being painted in my head, always a new nightmare that I have to subject others to so as not to be totally alone with it. And it frequently ends with my damnation of the entire human race. I love so many on this earth, and yet I see no other solution than to rid this planet of this ongoing blight that is humanity. And I see no other possible future other than our inevitable horrifying destruction of each other. There's no point really in even writing about it anymore. It doesn't help with anythi...

  Sentimentality and Scabs  For the past week to ten days, or however long it has actually been, I have tried to sit down and dedicate time to writing. To work on something new, or to continue an old, long-forgotten and neglected project, of which there are several that haunt me every single day. However, exhaustion, numbness, and an existential tiredness beyond description have taken hold of me and dragged me down deep into the shadows of inability, uncreativity, and an astounding sense of defeat. This is typical and is bound to happen from time to time, it is the product of a brain born with insufficient chemicals that wildly oscillate moods and perspectives back and forth without warning, and beyond control. Additionally, as I progress further down my prescription path of antidepressants, antipsychotics, and whatever else they might be giving me after growing numb to everything else - my palm filling up with tablets of increasing sizes, capsules rattling with little eager...