Quitting

I'm smelling myself in past dimensions,
because my mind's still going in a mllion directions,
and synasthesia's still scaring the shit out of me.

The taste and smell were always the same,
and they made me so glad that you came,
and I can't believe this fear is what will make me free.

The continued pulsing won't go away with time,
and I'm still being punished with enjoyment of the crime,
and no pill I swallow will make it go away.

So this is the feeling, to unburden myself,
to stick every last bottle up on a shelf,
and tell a room of strangers what I've done...?

Well then I'm left here just asking
whose will I've been tasking,
and what the hell do I do now for fun?

Without a Hangover

Staring out the window at what the realtor called a 'view,'
I shudder to wonder at what matters less.
Is it me or the archane systems I represent at every turn.

Flipping through the pages of what my uncle calls the 'news,'
I listen for anything worth calling noise.
Is it me or the silence that makes me sick?

Sifting through the seeds & stems of what my buddy calls 'good times,'
I try to feel anything sharp enough.
Is it me or the grass that makes t.v. bearable?

Picking through the scattered remains of what Mom called 'leftovers,'
I try to imagine what sense I'll still feel.
Is it me or the mustard that stains everything?

Sitting on that wooden perch your father called 'an example,'
you try to pretend I'm what you worked for.
You laugh because there's nothing to say.*

*Slipknot, "No Life" Slipknot (1999)

Caana

I'm addled in what you've designed.
It's what causes these spaces in my mind.
It's what leaves me unable to find
the place where the world should be kind.

I'm strapped in for a daily ride.
It's what leaves me without any pride.
It's what makes me wish I'd already died,
while I wait for your disease to kill me from inside.

I'm sniffing at every new scent.
It's what leaves me broken & bent.
It's what leaves my head with a dent,
while I beg for more time to pay rent.

I'm wondering what happens now.
It's why I pointlessly rub my brow.
It's what breaks me under the plow.
It's why I'm dying, but just not how...