i've been thinking too much

I am an Individual and everything I crave is

for Me.

I am selfish and everything I think

somehow disintegrates into

a narcissist’s prayer.

I want to indulge in the sensible meaninglessness

of everything around me.

I could kill god;

I could love it.

but in the most neglected corners of my mind,

I am a cliché:

I mourn a mysterious broken connection.

I run my hands over my chest, face, body –

convinced I am missing a piece of something.

on my knees in the shower,

I still cry out for a sign.

for meaning,

for hope,

for purpose.

I am ashamed afterwards,

by what I perceive is a weak mind.

I am stubbornly convinced my brain is cursed.

I use chemicals to shush my intuition

but as above, so below

and this fucking abyss never blinks.

I am consumed by fantasies and ignorant thoughts.

I am a slave to societal norms.

I am the embodiment of Sloth.

I am tormented by self-awareness.

I am bound to daily penance,

even when I’ve done nothing wrong.

I drink and inhale to run my fingertips over the surface of divinity,

but fuck . . .

I’m even lonelier when I come back down.

I want to stay nestled,

infantile,

in the godly arms of addiction

and I like to linger at that precipice often.

I vividly see the violent war in front of me

but my bravery sinks,

my brilliant thoughts stagnate,

my brain rationalizes,

and I laugh darkly at the thought of something more

than pushing this rock endlessly

up a hill

that men of authority

built for me.

I brush past an inkling

that there’s a reason for these human conditions:

this limited perception,

this loneliness,

my fleeting happiness,

the devils at my back forcing me forward,

my need to stop this poem to pee.

I try to acknowledge my humanity

while also letting go:

holding myself under the lonely tides

in the hopes that my near-death euphoria will

give me the answers

that I want

but am unable to comprehend.

My ego is holding me by the throat

and the only way to escape is to accept

I don’t actually need to breathe.