Ram Bull

I’m sick of needing people, believing people, exploring theories, exploding mores, standing up for the weak, being abused, being addicted, being ugly, being a failure, being alone, being broke and broken, having been spoke to but never spoken, hiding in corners, hiding in a drawer, hiding behind fences, hiding behind lore, being comfortable with things transient in nature, caring what people think and do, caring what people think of me and do to/with/because/without/about me.
I can’t stop analyzing myself.
I can’t stop worrying about how I seem.
The next line I read could be the answer.
With the next words written, I could save myself.
Do you understand that pressure? I’m bench-pressing the weight of the world and if I drop anything, I die, my family dies, my life is smoke.
Smoke drifts and scatters.
I have no fortification I can grant.
I’m shouting, I’m screaming.
Nothing works.
I’m sedate, I’m silent.
Nothing works and everything hurts.
Spin me something, light it on fire and I’ll inhale and inhale.

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