The Schizoaffective Writer

a sucking vortex of clips

looped and spinning

gushing across the cerebral terrain


the lights have dimmed, it is bleak here

all around me are the voices of people

some I recognize, others I promise never to face

“you’re better off dead.”

“you’re nothing, a fucking loser.”

“You’re better off dead.”

suddenly, from within my body grows an immense rush

it circulates throughout every vein

reinforced with the confidence of the Gods

“I cannot be slaughtered, fools!”

or so I maintain

dwindling bank accounts

hypersexual, deviant, slut, pig

“now lay awake in bed with your shame. You’re filth.”

I’m disappearing into the earth

deep, with the rocks and worms (who will rapidly feed on my carcass)

I’m fatigued, as I think

“Just let me not exist.”


a sucking vortex of clips…

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