† SINISTER PUBLICATIONS†

I’m on that famous thrill ride. The downward spiral.
I look up, but my head can’t tilt — always locked down at the ground.
Grind my teeth. Speak ill.

“Speak up, motherfucker.” So they say.
But I can’t. I’m already there.
You sure you want to come join me?

Time slides fast. Goes from slow to above the beyond.
Mental deficiencies stacked up like debts,
but I still clock in, twelve hours deep,
gotta fill the slots, so they say.

And I always get hit with the little things.
The grind. The necessities.
The blood and tears between the blackouts.

It’s never the big crash that breaks me —
it’s the pebbles underfoot, the nails in the tire,
the way a day eats itself alive in minutes.

How does one show up?
How does one even be one?
A lie in the depth, a lie being born.
From human form to the ashy and scorn.

So FUCK YEAH —
I WILL SPEAK MY MIND.
YOU HEAR ME NOW?
WHY YOU BACKING AWAY?
WHO YOU CALLING NOW?

I breathe. I show up. Twelve hours gone.
Slots filled, but the void doesn’t clock out.
The void don’t pay overtime.

And still I stand, teeth grinding,
jaw aching with words unsaid,
eyes locked on the floor like that’s where the answers fell.

And there it is.