My home is not my own
I retreat, nauseous with anger, and can’t quite explain it.
There is a hole in my ceiling, plaster rains down on my head.
I am under attack. Numbness relieves me. I have nothing to fear; for nothing matters to me.
The rules of your competition cannot affect me if I refuse to participate.
So one by one the plaster falls, the next faster than the last until the ceiling too relieves itself.
Am I responsible? Am I at fault?
Surely not. I couldn't have known, I am no contractor.
Order is not structure.
What your castle makes up for in complacency it lacks in foundation, nothing holds it up.
It will crumble to the ground just as you will.
The world I want to leave finds me, it always finds me. It consumes me, annoys me, ignores me, degrades me, and then asks for more.
I’m done, I’m tired, I'm only one person and you cannot make me rebuild what you have knocked down.
Lying is surviving, you taught me that.
And so the staircase I build only leads me downward, further from myself. There is no joy in that, so it is dismissed regardless of its truth.
Around the crown lay thorns of equivocation, and when I see it I feel nothing.
What I view is a landscape of peaks and valleys, constructed by God himself.
I allow it to pick me apart.
My lethargy, my pain
My humanness, my superiority
It doesn't matter
Like Gospel I follow, penance at my lap. I walk on jagged stones until my feet fail me, only to diverge from my path. Nothing is good enough.
I read into your expression, not like a novel but more like an advert.
It reads “Love, money, success”, yet I know you have none.
To bite is to understand and I have nothing to chew on, so give me the dirt that you call information, then I can learn. Every cell in my body metabolizes, digests, reproduces, dies, and repeats--so I do the same, the ground is no more. Your castle has fallen.