No I In Me

I crawl through days of desperation
In search of communication.
That vital role of talk more and talk less
Description of sounds and syllables
Reaching through glass and pulling up
Nothing.
But yet I grow to meet my words
That fall like birds at my feet
And thereby give occupation
To the nation of me.
My ego torn in treaded tracks
Breaking backs and breaking forward
To induce this creative coma.
A man or woman or child
Would go wild to find out what I am
Despite my need to tear myself
Apart and start again
And again.
My fear is measured by my eyes,
I recognize my pith to be retired
Each day I admire myself.
Upon sun that breaks the night,
My fast is not for food,
But rather life or something like it.
What I see at day and night
Propels my right to be insane.
My brain is a trap that I gladly
Step into.
In my head, I vanish
To banish my waking life
That has become a plague,
An unbearable infection.
The selection of words is limited
To the farthest parts of dreams,
It seems that I am finished,
Yet I breathe.

The Incarceration of What Feels

The incarceration of what feels
Reveals in most unlikely manners
The weaponry we fuse to our skin,
Saluting people with the compassion
Of sin.
Our mortal cries of horror lies
At the bottom of our love,
A dove, beheaded.
We wed husbands to wives
To lives of destruction and gloom,
Sets of family tombs,
Set apart and growing daily.
Our smothered youth developing
Mold and growing cold as we pass
The age of reason and bypass absurdity.
Smiles reflect the years that detect
Our elation.
Our motivation falls to research
And shuns mortality like a plague,
Infection at the rate of billions.
The epitome of technology
Breeding the race of dumb beasts,
Numb to the sensory acuity
That once relayed our state of mind,
Our kind is dying
To incarcerate anything that feels.