I'm almost there, almost dead. This dream has died inside my head: I have a family, loving.
By the eye of the needle, I'm hanging, not the thread. I'm done with the bloodshed.
I'm dangling; I'm done with the strangling. My thoughts are still jangling around in my skull. That's all, folks! I'm tired of the stokes. and the dysfunctional "jokes".
The witch has cackled and sent her monkeys to come at me with their flying, with all their spying, these die-hard flunkies. But I'm no longer a "love" junkie. I don't need that sweet hit, that "family," counterfeit. I don't seek that punch in the face that time can't erase, that waste of headspace.
I don't need those nails digging deep, scratching into my psyche, all pins and swords, spiky. Nah, I'm no longer asleep.
I don't need no more trouble. I'm quitting this spliff on the double. I'm done taking puffs off this sick joint, poison-laced and bullshit-filled, like a cardboard cake or a plastic frame, gilded.
I don't need these games or puzzles. I'm putting that bottle down without a guzzle. I've no need to stifle myself anymore; no need to dwell, drown, or pore over the past and all you abhor.
There's no desire to bellow this fire of criticism, hate, and mire. There's no want to puff you up, to get you higher by pushing myself down into the quagmire.
The belly of this beast will not be filled. Perhaps it shall instead be poached or grilled.
Upon its flesh, deceased, I'll feast. I'll smile, all the while in my "defeat."
