I chewed off my fingers just to impress your interest.
Needy – nonstop nourishment, proving nothing.
I’m almost certain I digested the vault of broken velocities.
Ups and downs drown my head. Seclusion is not in any way cathartic.
Or perhaps being normal frightens the fuck out of me. It’s so obvious isn’t it?
The self-help books hogging the bedroom, bedside table. Saturated alcoholic sheets.
It’s the sensitivity that tickles beneath skin. Some surreal sensation – a solution is what I need. Vacant voices – static-muffled. Anonymously infamous.
I’m tearing down walls with glass knuckles and teething apart self-growth with hard candy teeth. I’ll breathe in the steam of everyday living as if it rectifies with oxygen.
Feathered knees, chain-linked to cotton feet. An internal – soul arrested captive; reject.
Make it known, sweet prodigies of disappointment – make it known to your success and of my failure to test the limits of a world swallowed by acidic throats patched in benevolence.
Those mimicking voices – swiftly brief of gossip; seep through these walls.
I hear it all. Falling over again. Anger. Angst; pint up.
Living – it’s impossible, when your mind is permanently parked in purgatory; fishing around the grey zones.
Mitch Green, 26, is currently attending Southern New Hampshire University to acquire his BA in Creative Writing, with a minor in Screenwriting. He’s been featured in the Penmen Review, as well as House of Haunts, Profanity Queens, and Human Hand Puppets.
