wee little mocking bird...

pages turning
crumbling beneath my fingers
so damn irritating
as the red
overrides my vision
(still I’m blind)

thrashing
burning
wailing in my ears
feeding self to the flames
that will erase me
(and my words)

insane laughter
morbid delight
someone enjoys
torture and torment
on this beast
(is it me?)

crumbling
caving
cracking self…
it’s a good day
for getting lost
(forever)

and just outside my window,
a wee brown bird sits,
perched on the twig
that is his world,
singing, ever so sweetly,
about his bright disposition
and all the joy
that can be found
in a rising sun
and cool passing breeze…
singing…

l augh ing…

to R MEN ting…

m oc KING…

RUBBING IN MY

PaIN!?

S H U T T H E H E L L U P!

One ruined life, in the palm of my hand…
blood splatters my chest
in wee crimson droplets of freedom.
The silence
roars through my head
with the sound of water rushing
over the precipice at the edge of the world
and another mocking laugh can be heard…

barely…

on the edge of my sanity…

as I look toward the limb
and see a silent bird watching…
waiting…

wondering…

if he can duplicate that gurgle
before I hit the ground.

It’s a good day to crack.
or… it was.