Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god

Broken Heap

I quake from within;
So rotten, my core has
Disappeared in a mess
Of fetid, festering disappointment.
The cold is like death,
Swinging its psythe around,
Breathing its frost upon me,
Trying to behead me.
The shaking won't cease.
Cuts split my tightlipped mouth,
And when I speak,
My words are fog.
Visible but not heard.
My neck snaps back
And I'm a broken heap
Desiring the garbage bin.
Knowing no tragedy has
Touched me with its icy
Fingers, I trudge on, trying
To make sense of the
Mess of mental handicaps
Slamming down upon me,
Like huge, freefalling concrete slabs
Weighing me down,
And then, grinding me into dust.
When the wind blows me away,
I've accomplished nothing
BUt a smile.
Not enough to change anything.

12-29-09


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Broken Heap

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