Pillows For Insomniacs

It grows inside you, violently kicking and rending like an undead fetus... the disgust and loathsome anguish fueled by resentment. It's an infection, just like any gangrenous sore... it must be cut out. At night, we trace our arms with razor blades... wondering how quickly it could be taken away. All of the pain and suffering, the memories and guilt... the unwanted erections that soil the afterbirth. Shame would be forgotten and the struggle to remain sober would cease... a wounded man walks with his head hung low, but the dead need not walk at all. No longer would I feast on the endless plates of tongues... bloated tissue of lies as my only sustenance. The rituals fade away with no one left to foster the vigil... the mass unending, the end complete. Rather than crawling upon my knees with fistfuls of pubic hair as the offering... thrown in ire at the faces that once admired the thought of love and regret. May my eyes finally close as I inhale the rails of powder fantasy... it need not be long, just enough to sleep eternal. Two heartbeats, three, and four... soon to be undone, leaving less than one. Mother's walls would finally come down, as Jesus and I drink our afternoon tea... dancing in a pile of angel's wings. All that would be left... is me.

I visited with my doctor today... my monthly mental health medication checkup. The report was tasteless, but the mouth gnaws with no teeth to fill it. My medication was raised by another 20mg, in hopes of some relief to come rapping at my bathroom window... the probability is bleak, so we must remain on watch. The hands to go ticking by so slowly... measure the heart of a man. What really needs to change in my life is this living situation... the hostages must be set free. Until that happens, all we can do is force enough pills down my gullet to help me make it through another day. I told him that I was seriously considering taking up a new hobby... drinking. He failed to find the humor in that statement... probably because he knew I wasn't kidding. I was reminded that would only be an escape from reality... thus, not a recommended form of treatment. How I long for the aroma of bubbling dirt and burnt hair... sobriety comes with a heavy price, one called life. The downside would be the removal of that trophy... the one so prized and jeweled. Perhaps it never existed in the first place... every night is ended by chewing my narcotics in the name of healthcare. I am the stripe-less tiger, for this is deeper than the flesh... it's in my bones. A glorified junkie.