I’ve forgotten how it felt to have my lungs hump against my ribcage.


There was a time when my tears ran rapids along duvet formations, but now they’ve crystallised, become as blank as the scripts i’m failing to start. I’ve become an on/off switch that triggers like seasons, finding myself saying, this is supposed to hurt. But it doesn’t. The next time i open my mouth to laugh i am reminding myself it’s not real, that this isn’t hitting the nail on the head of my heart, not like it used to. So when i sit down, looking at the ocean or facing down my food, i am forcing myself to think creatively, to look beyond ordinary perception; i’ve become blind to that sensation. All that is, simply is. It seems that secondary value of literary license has failed to make it past the the passing of the polling card.

Just a pawn in a political stratagem.

I am no longer the God to my will, simply puppet to the drill of stoicism repeated in blows. Replicate. what. you. know.

What i know?

That weakness is my sin; stand straight, stand proud, stand abject to the crowd. This is your mantra. Don’t let the bastards get you down, because if you do you’re going to drown.


From within.

I am conflicted. Irrational thoughts are like hair clogged drains strangling my membrane. There’s a giant finger pressing against my spine, and now i’m a spot ready to burst, waiting until i poole into the cement to be swept away by treads of rubber taking me away until i’ve been stretched from point to point, a murder track connected by pale nerve endings.

Most of all i am a voodoo doll with invisible pain receptors. Cut me and i’ll bleed stuffing. Stab me, i’ll say nothing. And yet still i’ll smile because i am a doll and dolls do not feel.



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