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Accustomed to Desolation

Contributed by chris07 on Monday, 28th December 2009 @ 11:01:57 AM in AEST
Topic: psychoticpoems

The crooked gates are opening.

I must go now; I’ve spilled black paint again.

Condemned to incarceration. Assigned to solitary confinement.

A scrap metal perimeter.

Twenty-three hours lockup, plus one hour recreation; my daily routine.

I desperately wait; infected with diseases that slither and crawl.

At last, it’s time! Thirty-six hundred seconds.

Without warning, all interest has vanished. I withdraw into my cavity.

Creeping through the water supply -- the paint has discovered a way.

Swallowing sludge; thick and rotten. I am forced to drink.

Tremors caused by misery are covered with chicken skin.

Cockroaches are released from my gut; the bats are nesting in my psyche.

Obsessions with death seduce compulsions of self-torture.

I say a final goodbye to none but myself.

Pure, undisturbed snow; glistening over a warm, winter-wonderland.

Am I dead? Is this the afterlife?

“ No. It’s Mania… ”

“ Let's take a vacation -- Let’s indulge for a while ”

Christopher A. Rousseau
Saturday, December 19, 2009

Copyright Â© chris07 ... [ 2009-12-28 11:01:57]
(Date/Time posted on site)

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