Pacing

I can barely write. The weight is too heavy. I struggle to see the screen. It feels like the final battle.

This morning I had coffee, with eggs and bacon, I thought it would give me a lift. Things did escalate, in fact.

What am I going to do with this madness? As if I’ll make sense about it, I’ll make my home on the fringe.

Something let go. A release. I am always letting go. I put on the same faded pair of jeans, so I can feel at ease, but also make a quick escape.

What I feel, is a handbrake pulled up. I’m unable to move, even if I can steer. I’m feeling the cost of a year.

I’m teetering on the edge again. That’s the only way I can live, so I am told. It is difficult to argue with that.

What else can I do but surrender, when the machinations of fate encircle me and demand my signature?

I’ll disguise the pain in an act of wit, or a play on words. What else for a fool, with his feet stretched out to the birds.

So here I am. Pacing, heart racing, the carapace breaking. Hopelessness traced in a carcinogenic patient.