There is not a feeling that burns
other than fear, rage or anxiety
when I am in this sitting place
and this world is a slow septic churn.
This is not the apparent grab at self-pity
but is an accounting of a life between choices
and a tearing and pain inside
that quite frankly is nothing other than shitty.
When the heart fears the consequential release of voices
then are those inner powers and energies
misaligned with the indefeasible realities
as plans and wishes are suddenly forced toward all that void is.
Upon this clandestine stool I plan it,
for my return to you is all I dream of.