a cycle of inadequacy,
checking the spaces between what is
and what it should be,
lining up all my thoughts
and knocking them over
like a game with no purpose
other than the act of,
a spectacle for others to pass over
as i sit slackjawed and bleary eyed
watching nothing happen before me,
no words, no images, no sound,
the tyranny of self loathing.

i smoke more and more and more
and i care less and less,
the ashtray becomes a boneyard
and the space i inhabit
is clogged with stale sorrow like mold,
a slow moving dementia
slipping through dirty sheets
and boxes never unpacked,
the smell of failure
is overwhelming and it lingers
on and on, my heart beats slower
and slower and seldom do i blink.

my lips move as if words were formed
yet there is no one to hear
even if they came to be,
the sun i shunned is slow to return
and drive away the burning winter,
it is a parade of tobacco
and lonely battles
and frightened paranoia,
the blinds are choked
by their own cords
and the night is now less welcoming,
something of a luxury to encounter
on dark voyages of the mind,
bereft of realness,
a soft memory slowly tearing,
a slow heartbeat,
a slackjawed idiot
hammering out words of sadness
for no reason other than to do so.

-S.C. Martinez

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