Too much of the bad shit, and my mind is in a state of limbo.
Cigarettes and a dusty saucer - a cup of coffee and a blank page;
An informal suicide note.
Eloquent as never but just as incredulous.
I have begun moving along the line.
This - my friend - is a perfect spiral,
and I am not quite sure which direction it leads.
Call it poetry - or song, if melody permeates your perception -
I call it a whimper of hesitant outrage:
"What have I become?"
This is what some would call the threshold,
and I've got both feet in the air, hands glues to my eyes.
There's a hard landing in my nearest future
and I've stomped the ground into a hardened, cracked surface.
We were never meant to fly.
...
Here goes everything.
