The bottom of the ocean

He’s been living in a stagnant ocean of malaise and that’s a problem because you can’t touch the bottom of the ocean and know there’s nowhere to go but up.

But there’s a light. And that light could potentially turn that ocean into a pool, and he’s swam enough to know how to get to the bottom of a pool and back to the top with his eyes closed.

It’ll hurt because you can’t breathe and your lungs will scream because for it to be a pool, you have to trust you’ll touch the bottom when you reach deep enough. And once you’ve reached there, you’ll kick up, shooting towards the light like a bullet to the brain.

Boom.

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A time I craved

This used to be a time I craved, surrounding darkness caging me in with the silent embrace of someone unknown.

But lately that unknown someone is becoming unwanted, and the surrounding darkness, that cage I needed, no longer brought comfort with its silence. Instead it bred claustrophobia.

Trapped in a cage, no bird will sing but many will cry, and those who don’t cry grow heavy. Stones pile in their stomachs and they never fly again.

There’s a terror in that unknown embrace, now, a terror that leaves me shaking and blurs my vision, and it’s so confusing because there’s no outlet, nothing for me to release nowhere. So I’ll sink deeper into my vices, searching for a key, or better yet, a hammer to break the stones and smash the cage and free me from this stranger’s embrace.

Water Bleeds

The water bleeds the ink and it drips in rivulets, the leak of a faulty intravenous needle. Uncontrollable mistakes like leeching of old, the letting of letters bridges the corpus callosum. He won’t romanticize, but Jack the Giant Slayer is passed out drunk on the corner, waiting for a passing john, and it feels too damn good.

The frothy mouth bubbles free with the tucked sighs from yester-year’s yesterday and when his eye twitches so hard the bough breaks, there’s a contentment tinged in the copper. A scent so strong, it breaks through the wretched stench of blood. Pale like snow but dark a log’s gut, his veins pour onto the paper and for now everything feels okay.