Nothing is as lonely as feeling as lonely feels.
Oxygen gets cut short from that funny thin stick.
Call it Cancer, call it American, call it what it is:
A Hopeless Cigarette to shell out the life of clearance.
I sense the way the walls compress on my skin. I feel.
When they close, I start to recognize, it’s real.
I die inside every night despite my will to survive.
Outside substance, musical therapy, mental jeopardy
Leaves me wickedly lethargic and fatigued with speed.
How can I discard a mind that stands over me?