Reality tunnels

A Poem by addisone

I seem to tell people everything about my day when I know they don't care to hear about all the s****y things I ate and all the cigarettes I smoked and the small adventures I took to the thrift store to buy a new coat.

There's something dreadful in my head and I am trying so hard to forget like fighting off cancer or getting shocked with dread.

~~The night;~~ my blanket of abeyance and source of life so I soak it up like plants soak up the oxygen in the sunlight.

I stopped wearing sun glasses during the day, I love the way the waves of rays raise the color shades in my iris flavors change like birthday cakes to apples rotting In the space between my teeth and gums and hollowed fun that I rest pretentious arsenic coated phlegm on my tongue.

Spit the wits I used to rely on into the atmosphere surrounding my breath and body pixelation, running on, my ribbons of life glide like northern lights.

Walk through my color streams of dreams and memories to disrupt my past, future and present scenes.

But we'll never know if the ghost trailing behind my stretching flesh in the wind of regret, is actually there at all or hasn't actually happened yet or died off in the trauma of my sinking drinking fits.

Slitting wrists like opening breathing holes in boxes full of crickets, they sing the song of my silence all too well.

I shouldn't say those things but I'm trying hard to be genuine about my thoughts and the process it takes to make the fog that clogs my brain with white and black lined strains of introspective haze go away.

I spew the truth like kissing booths pass sicknesses through innocence of not knowing self indifference.

We are young we say each day we pass the time waiting for our teenage brains to develop new level of neurons and channel waves that change the phases in our visions like a stereoscope.

The trigger for my image switcher broke when I tried to flick the painful images away like bugs flying close to my face.

They say a lit flame keeps the insects away but we all burn up in the light that derails the path we chose to take a year ago when we knew we were making a mistake by trying to fight to stay sane instead of fighting to let the absence of realism drift away.

And in pain I found beauty the size of a cigarette burn hole in a sweater. To remember is to suffer and to forget is to suffer, the beauty is the fact that any of it happened at all.

~~The day;~~ my open wound and tunnel vision to the pits of hell that pull me down and try to tell me nothing good has been found in my heart or my head or the spots on my skin where my body's malfunctioning and starting to give in, like a broken step along a long rickety old bridge that leads to private forests and a failing falling fence. We start with 270 bones at birth and it slowly decreases till our bodies are placed in the earth.

I can feel the hopeful 206 I have working and fighting back to stay alive and keep their strength, but they need my help, and they need my faith.

If we can help each other we can be saved, I need their help to feel okay. I don't love my bones and I don't love my skin.

So what of me if I can't find love inside these hallways lined with snapshots of the memories I've been trying to keep since I first stood up on my own two feet.

There was a time I felt the sting relieve of a healing wound opening, some things just can't be controlled and if my skin wants to bleed then I shouldn't try and intervene and keep the pieces pressed together like bodies in the warmth of the night.

Terrified am I of myself, when the winter is cold and blows the books of my shelf, with its long stretching body napping on the earth, its limbs protruding into our cars house and mouth.

This is when my bones will break and it will take nothing more than a window or an open door.

Whip the winter winds will against our backs as we stand outside in the middle of a street, our bodies ready for the cold empty storm to take you and me.

What comes next?

The dark dead of a storm alone in an ugly bathroom old with filth and aging blood that stains the porcelain and cracks in the walls?

Is that what comes with rips in dreams when all the things i fantasize fall out into the rings around my head like Saturn filled with dust and ice.

I'll be locked inside inside myself for months until the earth melts, and with it my skin and all the days I marked on the backs of my legs with a pen, and a blade to make sure the days would stay and I wouldn't lose track cause I always do inside this brain when losing track feels the same as losing practically everything.

Winter is a silent season, you can hear nothing but the falling of flakes and flags waving in the distance at the right time of day.

The silence is broken by the drags that I take, in with the smoke out with the cold, easy as breathing or so we are told.

A day without smiles a day without laughter,

Our goal is to become fourth dimensional and believe what we think and feel is real.