sweating blood? at least you still bleed.

Bitch, bitch, whine, moan. this is getting tiresome. i need to find the root. its somewhere. ive come far enough to know, its always me. we are always the root of our own problems, however existential they may be. so, here is my frustration. plain and painful. i hope i get out of this funk soon. egh. self loath, rinse, repeat.

 

She says

I should write.

“at least three pages a day”.

Shit, I can barely manage

half a page.

At least

of anything worth

a damn.

 

Fuck her.

 

Painful thing is that

I can feel it.

Waiting to breach. Wanting to breath.

Instead,

its suffocating.

A glass ceiling. Salvation

just out of reach.

And what am I left with.

 

A god-damned parasite.

Slowly

 

eating at me.

Slowly

 

sucking me

dry.

 

This block,

it’ll be the end of me.

Maybe not

this time around, but it’s like a

venereal disease.

A bad one.

One that’ll stick with me.

One that’ll

pop up when least expected, and

wanted.

It’s a bad neighbor.

Its gonna burn through lovers.

 

See now,

I know why they call it

a block.

Not because your mind

is stuck, or

because there’s a wall, or

sign, or

row of cows in the road.

Fucking inconsiderate fucks.

 

No,

this shit is clinical.

It’s the worst case of constipation

imaginable.

Like the whole

system has shut down.

Like your asshole has

dried and puckered up.

Damnedable Satan’s raisin.

Nothing coming out.

Or going in,

and I may regret saying it, but at least in would provide some relief.

 

Now I’m just

backed up.

My bowels are

slowly leaking into my blood stream.

I’m poisoning

myself from within.

It’s a slow death, sick and writhing, and

full, of shit,

and piss,

and vinegar.

My bile is fermenting.

Full. So

because nothing

gets out,

nothing gets in.

 

I’m stewing in

my own filth.

And I’m angry.

Time

to ruin some things.

“no don’t do that”

“you’ll regret it”

Fuck regret.

She’s a sour cunt.

Never cared for her,

anyway.

No choice, when all

the weapons I’ve got left are

spewing out of me.

a froth of half baked thoughts

strewn on the streets.

 

and this?

I squeezed out of my pores.

Now,

I’m sweating blood.

At least I can still bleed.

 

Here, I finger painted you

something.

I hope you can still read.

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: