Trickle

The empty wasteland, ravaged by drought,

Drowning in dysphoria and doubt. 

The leaking bucket, almost empty but never quite,

The dying light is gone but it's never night.

I might as well be blind or be dead,

I've lost my vision and lost my head.

So this is me, I don't tell lies and I don't kill people. There's not much else to me, I spend my days lying in the gutter licking the black sludge that trickles past and hoping someone will stamp on my head crushing my nose and shattering my teeth. I love spitting teeth out, it's like having bits of your skull broken off. When I was a kid I hit myself in the face with a stick so hard I knocked myself unconscious. I'm not a total masochist, I once yelled at someone, I think that's when I lost my voice, oh and I split my best friends skull with a rock for no reason. Who needs reasons anyway? My whole body set in plaster made from dried mucous, chewing gum and I've no idea what else because I couldn't care less. I've tried to get a cold chisel in one of the festering cracks but I can't. Maybe one day I'll be able to break it off and if I'm lucky it'll stick to my skin and peel it all off, that would change the tone. But I know I'm not lucky, I'm like God; my fate is sealed, set in stone, finished before it began. God doesn't need motivation because I don't think he could possibly have free will. I doubt everything. I have neither. I wouldn't use the alphabet if I could, I wouldn't eat or drink or breathe if I could. It's like trying to suffocate yourself; your panic overcomes you. I should meditate to clear my mind and take control but I'd rather listen to music. I hate talking, I hate talking to people but the demon inside me loves seeing them nod in acknowledgement of what I've said. Yes my one friend is my only real enemy because it makes the world my enemy. I want to punish my punisher. But it probably enjoys being punished. Sick, filthy dog with horns covered in flies. I read that petting animals can help with anxiety. Looking at the wet, flea ridden dog laying beside me in the gutter I reach out and pet it's head. It opens a bloody eye and in our own way we smile at each other because deep down we're friends. And we've always been friends; my arm has the infected, oozing bite marks to prove it...