Closer

I spent the morning retching out black bile, fear, insecurity lining the walls of thought, a constriction within the cage of failure, purged with tears, and I cried for freedom, cried for my inconstancy with convention, and realized life irrelevant as the yowl of a clown, the scream of a banshee born in the mind of man, my own words nothing but blood in my hands, life dripping from the tongue, adolescent, hurting, hurting, hurting, I've stepped on the spike of purpose, impaled my hands and feet with the stigmata of truth: I'd die and be sacrificed for art and voice, shaking from the stab of my own pen, and happy in my suicide...