Funhouse.

Whirling in circles, 
thoughts race through my mind 
like I'm stuck in the spin cycle.
I thought I knew better,
believed I had learned from this.

Yet here I am again turning, 
and twisting my words, 
might as well take a book
and hollow out its pages–
rendering them useless.

Why do I do this.
Repeatedly committing to
this insanity that robs me of peace.
Mea culpa, why does it have to be.
It steals my slumber and my dreams.

Everything is charcoal filtered;
it stings like lemon juice in fresh splinters.
Scars on my face, bruises on my knees.
Papercuts on my fingertips,
that you drown in overproof whiskeys. 

I hear a fizzing before 
everything fades to black. 
I regain consciousness 
swimming in the blues.
Is this the brand new me?

Or a recycled, carbon copy? 
An upgraded version or just 
a software update for free.
A never before seen silhouette 
or the same old ghost I used to be.

I just can't keep up, 
with racing against the clock
like it means anything anyway.
Progress will not be forced,
it cannot be reproduced.

All the plastic in the ocean,
and I'm still more artificial.
Will this old, rust coloured 
bicycle chain wear away 
so it finally can be replaced?

Because I swear I keep changing gears 
and still end up getting nowhere.
These wings on my back are just for show.
The horns inside my head continue to grow.
I chased the monsters out from under my bed.

I'm the one who cleared all the cobwebs.
Buried the skeletons in my closet.
But my demons remain, regardless.
They refuse to fade away.
These ghouls delight in my downfalls.

Applauding every single time I fail.
Snickering sheepishly, bearing the sharpest teeth 
from their seats in the audience, 
they take pleasure in watching me 
tumble away from the best of me.

I land face-first in what's left of me.
Beads of sweat dance on my forehead,
I stop to catch all my lost breaths.
The room becomes a merry go round,
that's been hijacked by a bloodthirsty clown. 

Vertigo takes control of me,
I collapse from anxiety.
Stuck in this funhouse maze,
my own distorted reflection 
stares back at me in judgement.

White gloves reach through the walls
pulling me in every direction.
Suddenly put on trial for these patterns
then insulted for my imperfections. 
I've yet to learn my lesson.

I gave my future the kiss of death.
through my own stagnation.
Through bated breath, 
I accepted eternal damnation.
I still yearn to learn my lessons.