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...

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