The boil of blood fills my ears

Every step leads to tears

Endless steps, endless climb, cycle unbroken

Labored steps to the small home where I may rest

I had arrived to find the elevator broken

After a twelve hour day bitter lamentations now spoken

I am not sure of how many years

I can keep my body going with such stress

Concrete walls, steel steps, every sound and grunt reveals me: a mess

Elevator down for a week, more or less my life, I guess

Grace and opportunity afford me salvation

But in my hubris I fell into old patterns

I keep telling myself to break the cycle

But I cannot help but fall into the same

Old habits

Another night with little sleep, stucco ceiling gazing back at me

The popcorn abyss above threatens to swallow me

I feel sweat on my pillow as I turn my head

I smell a sour tang

I can be better; I must be better

But those old habits are hard to conquer

I slap myself, heel of palm to the forehead

It hurts but the worry hurts more

Failure hurts more

Money is my problem – there’s never enough

Money haunts me – it won’t let me sleep

Money promises an escape – if only I was smarter

Money is my solution – if only I was good with it

My foot in my mouth;

They move on with a chuckle.

Why can’t I move on?

It is a long night of uneven sleep

as the mind wanders through a maze of doubts

fueled by the previous falsehoods that

shook the foundations of what I knew of you.

There remains a distance; seemingly wide.

Too wide, too treacherous, despite desire

to move past it and find normality

I crave for safety, for comfort, for love.

Radio silence at midnight, of course.

There are valid reasons, I know as much

But again, those nagging doubts nip at me.

The paranoid mind is what it is, yes? 

So the rat mind wanders the maze searching

for reasons – the why of you – solutions

to the cruel question: what are we in

this experimental era of doubt?

This world is a goddamn fucking mess

Smoothbrains seem content

Accepting the words of those who hurt them

Cloaked aspirations toward their opulence

They don’t fucking see the world is on fire

They don’t fucking now they’re already drowing

They don’t fucking know they’re already dead

Distracted by hostility to those they’re told to target

Elmer Fudd falls for the sign switch

Fascist Bugs Bunny pulls a swift one

Daffy Duck’s face blown away in the trigger pull

They don’t fucking see they are hamburger

They don’t fucking see they are the product

They don’t fucking see the fat man is fed

Go back to the system they cant afford

Even meager pleasures cost more

Tick. Tock.

Idle eyes watch the hands.

Tick. Tock.

Serious in ambition. 

Tick. Tock.

But merely playing at the process.

Tick. Tock.

Weighty expectations.

Tick. Tock.

Desire is not effort.

Tick. Tock.

Worried.

Tick.

Now.

Tock.

Work. Tick. 

Work. Tock. 

Not. Tick. 

Done. Tock.

Tick tock tick.

Self-imposed goals (ticktockticktock) are (tick) the (tock) most (ticktock)

dev (tick) as (tock) tat (tick) ing.

Tick. 

Tock. 

Tick.

The descent begins with the realization.

The stomach drops out, the head begins to hurt.

Every painful failure plays on loop

in the screening room of memory.

That thing when you were eight.

That thing that happened last week.

Yes. Every. Single. Failure.

Whether they are truly your failures

or if they were attributed to you

you feel each one batter at your spirit

an unavoidable, unending torrent of blows

only meant to punctuate the feelings

that eat at you already.

Tenderizing the soul for the damnation.

This. Is. Your. Fault.

You wonder if you were a bad person.

By any ledger you don’t add up.

Did you fuck up? Yes.

Did you lie? Who doesn’t?

Did you steal? Yes, but everyone does.

Your sins, perceived through rationalism

don’t seem enough to damn you.

Yet. You. Are. Miserable.

This isn’t even Hell, no, not yet.

This is just your mind wandering

as you lay down to sleep.

Sweet dreams, sucker.