scratch the surface

wait for 2 AM
for what is sleep?
but an inconvenient gap
in this cycle of familiarity
even if a full day ahead
waits already with glint in its eye
with a knife hidden in a sweaty fist
it could go either ways
it knows as well as I do
but what fun is a day
without a few scratches
or some wounds to show for it
every day the scabs open
like doors to the temple
of some ancient deity
reverently we rip them off
consumed by a fervent piety
no matter how much we scratch
how much we bleed
it's only the surface
the wounds go too deep
perhaps now
it's time to sleep

crunch the void

a void
restlessness
an absence
of faith
and all the nice things
that I can never have
for what is within sight
is not within grasp
and a closed fist
is often used to punch the walls
the cockroach in my heart
is eating away all the blood and gristle
the husk of emotions that I am left with
is of no use to me

again

here we are again
my friend
words on the pages
words in the wind
digital detritus
words on my skin
words in my bones
virtual voodoo
words in my lungs
words on my tongue
binary benedictions
words from my eyes
words in my lies
cyberpunk circus
words words words
spinning in a circle
a medley of madness
incomprehensible mess
if i could, i would confess
to this fuckery
this perverted suckery
to make no sense
but just say things
where meaning is lost
like a child in a strip club
if i could, i would
shoot down a cherub