The Lonelies

Terror has been seeping slowly into my breathing patterns for a while now, this very discombobulating sensation that I am losing losing losing losing pieces and people and places and memories and giant hunks of my own self which drop off as I lumber along barely noticing the itchy spot where I was once complete.
Hi,
my name is terror. I am the bandage you wrap around yourself to keep it all together, and guess what? Now you suffocate.
I sometimes really feel like I no longer breathe. I just anaerobically survive in the placating madness of routine. Somehow, if I just make it through this next hour, I am one hour closer to life being better.
Life being butter?
Forgive the madness...it comes much quicker, much sleeker in the night, in the wee hours, in the lonelies.

Perhaps that's where I should have begun in the first place.

Lonely Mountain

On De Lonely De Mountain,
is a quagmire fountain
a precipice field
and a garden of fleas

Where the quagmire's stucking
the fleas do their sucking
the field unmakes plucking
of the mountains vast seas

So we built it a mansion
a manor of speaking
a house with a voice
and a window that sees

without blinking our fingers
the house made of tinders
is aflame and then cinders
if you only say please

yet no travelers come striding
nor sailers their riding
and the ventured unwinding
their breadcrumb trapeze

so a girl sits unwriting
a song for inviting
and watches all the fleas blighting
under a famine of breeze

come to me someday
and play on the wordplay
i still think of you fondly
and our exchange of disease



goodnight.