Evasion.

Incorrigible landscape,
that cannot be recreated.
There is no copy and paste here.
Ticking underneath my ribcage,
a sleeping dragon awakens.
Beating to the rhythm of birdsongs,
one misstep could collapse a civilization.
A glance mistaken capable
of crashing stock markets.
Your guess as good as mine
what could make it plummet.
Sending shockwaves through nations,
like a sonic boom.
Tremors that create rifts in the Earth,
like natural disasters.
Corrugated cardboard heart of mine,
often recycled,
occasionally left behind.
One wrong move and limbs go flying,
splattering the air,
like the paint of possessed artists.
A twisted scientist,
he is a tortured genius.
His every project,
government green-lit.
Imagine such power,
the kind to be marvelled.
With enough force to crumble mountains;
one snap of his fingers
and the world is reduced to shrapnel.
Dust clouds the sky reducing vision.
There is no clarity here,
it vanished like a magician.
Sometimes he is the court jester,
others, the king.
One misinterpretation is all that is needed
to result in widespread suffering.
So, be quiet and still.
Proceed with caution,
treading on egg shells,
so he remains sleeping.
While he is dreaming,
there will be peace in the district;
no chaos in these streets,
tonight.

Saboteur.

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.
Oh man, why does it have to be
charcoal filtered;
it stings like lemon juice
in fresh splinters.
Paper cuts on my fingertips
that you drown
in overproof whiskey.
I hear a fizzing before
everything fades
to black then blue.
Is this the brand new me
or a recycled carbon copy?
A never before seen silhouette
or the same old ghost I used to be.
I just can't keep up,
racing against the clock
like it means anything.
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 somehow still end up running late.
These wings on my back are just for show.
The horns inside my head continue to grow.
I cleared all the cobwebs.
Buried the skeletons in my closet.
But my demons remain.
They refuse to fade away.
These ghouls delight in my downfalls,
they applaud every single time I fail.
Snickering sheepishly,
bearing the sharpest teeth
from their seats in the audience,
they take pleasure in
watching me tumble from ecstasy,
landing face-first in what's left of me.
Beads of sweat dance on my forehead,
I stop to catch my lost breaths.
The room becomes a merry go round,
that has 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 chastised for patterns.
Through stagnating I gave my future
the kiss of death.
Through bated breath,
I accepted the consequence
for failing to progress.