keep your doors closed

keep your doors closed
I am perpetually awake in a state of heart-break.

Whatever; toothache.

Toothpaste: Bonecare.

Headache–natures of wastes of -other- mental spaces

truly manifested, physically.

Proved by science: biology.

Why does it feel like a fist is pummeling me

in an abstracted location

painted red in connotation: a perfect

rosy, St. Valentine’s target…..
It is disgusting. It is nothing

but another bloody organ,

smothered and dripping in ridiculous, romantic

connotations–for processing. 

Liver, cochlea, lungs, heart, esophagus:

why is there something 

to it?

No one gets it.
Every night 

you throw a brick through my ribs

like a shop window, shattering,

and the shards of the bones break my heart

(the contents of the store within). 

You fucking vandal, it’s vandalism!

It’s a bloody 

fucking

concave mess–

every night beginning around 10pm.

Then everyone goes to bed 

(on me). Leaving no one left

——->(but me).
It’s not really broken: to Hell 

with that drama.

No one gets why the ache radiates from that

clichéd place;

that we feel that heavy, crushing, breaking,

pain reign from that non-heart-shaped 

sung-after-space.

Torturous:

we try to solve some attributes of

mystery. Like 

we don’t quite grasp the brain;

yes, synapses explain some things

but where do -we- come in

to things?

Our all-encompassing “identities.”

“mememememememe.”
Why are our thoughts in our minds/

our minds in our brains?

Our love in our hearts?

Goddamn nomenclature identity.

I once woke up

to enemies:

Have you ever been awakened by

sleep paralysis

surrounded by the incubus (or the succubus)?

Well, that was this.

Everyone I knew was turned into 

an incubus (you know, in their shadow suit

that doppelgänger shit), and I

pinned: sleep-paralysis.
“The situation fit”—> blame shift 

Hahaahaaa! People in their identity suits

can be such classic pieces of shit.

Thoughts based on nothing,

words thin as grit. 

Grit

to spit.

“Trust me,” you say.

It makes me. 

Then you do the Death-Sway.

Am I surprised? 

Ahaahaaa,

no way.

Identities make people insane.

But every night around 10 pm it begins

again; because of some

stupid, ridiculous, opening. 

A tear in the cosmic seam in the shirt-lining.

Then all that stuffing to keep us comfy and soft

starts spilling out

the opened tears at one another.
People only apply their personal short-comings 

to each other

to foist the burden on the other…..

Like, “Hey! I forgot the keys to my car-box!”

And I was here,

I “distracted” you.

Of course you are not just a distracted-self

Scape-goating another self.

And that is such a tiny thing to shove unto another.

whocareswhocarewhocares

No one cares: about any of this

minimal detraction we’re doing.

ESPECIALLY the reckless perpetrators of distraction.

It only matters if it enriches.

Everything else just robs and ravages.

Looking for a host to suck on…..

-clw

10-14-16

copyright: C. Ward 2016

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