I have an anger issue
That tissues and issues of "How to Not End Up Killing A Man"
Could never and have yet to in the least bit tuck away
Slay the impulses and urges as I do the blackness is pit-less
Endless the battle behind my eyes
And grinding between my jaws
Maw clenched and jugulars pumping black diesel blood
To my extremities, thighs, back, chest, fingertips
Tremble and slip
Tip over I might from this ledge of sanity
Uncannily I feel it
And know it will never go away
Because it is just as much a part of me as my last name
In the night on occasion I dream of brutality and heinous acts
And have nightmares of being caught committing them
I dream about killing people
Faces I'm familiar with
Ones that I love
And a good portion of the time foreign ones I only vaguely remember
And awake to pulsing ropes coiled and tied taught between the far reaches of my body and wrapping Around the soft tender base of my neck
To hook fingers and mallet knuckles and cudgel shoulders
And sledgehammer heels that dangle in the calm grey quiet of morning
Hungry tongue coiling around steak-knife teeth
An Edward Scissor-Hands of sorts
Shredding in my mind anything and everything that I hold on to
With face white and gaze empty
Looking about for something
Anything to dull the blades and snap off the heavy blunt heads
From my tools of self destruction
Sweat forming a chalk outline around my body where I once laid
Still and empty behind crime scene sheets
And I hate it
Waking up afraid of myself is not something I find particularly enjoyable
I know I'll never hurt anyone
Even if one day I snap
But I only say I know that in the same way that I know that things will always work out in the end
Or that everything happens for a reason
It's comes from a place of hope
And not of fact
Because it just has to
And to be honest
I don't know how many shoddy walls the bullet of bitterness
Will pierce through before at last it is slowed to a halt
Whether after it ricochets within the rib cage of the small child kept quietly in a barricaded room that
Is my sanity and purity
Or yet another wall I've made
And if at that point it will even matter that I stopped
Stopped yelling
Stopped hurting
Stopped the pain I paid forward
But someday I will find this dark passenger
In his sleep while he rests easy
And end him
Because maybe
With all of the foolish "research" I've put into my dreams and interpreting them
The people I kill are not quite people
But rather represent pieces of myself that I
In my waking hours
Continuously kill
Filled with dreams of being better and stronger and wiser
Miser with time and money
I fight to be the most wholesome person I can ever hope to become
So as to find peace
But is it really peace if I must kill all these pieces of myself along the way?
What then does that say about peace?
Could never and have yet to in the least bit tuck away
Slay the impulses and urges as I do the blackness is pit-less
Endless the battle behind my eyes
And grinding between my jaws
Maw clenched and jugulars pumping black diesel blood
To my extremities, thighs, back, chest, fingertips
Tremble and slip
Tip over I might from this ledge of sanity
Uncannily I feel it
And know it will never go away
Because it is just as much a part of me as my last name
In the night on occasion I dream of brutality and heinous acts
And have nightmares of being caught committing them
I dream about killing people
Faces I'm familiar with
Ones that I love
And a good portion of the time foreign ones I only vaguely remember
And awake to pulsing ropes coiled and tied taught between the far reaches of my body and wrapping Around the soft tender base of my neck
To hook fingers and mallet knuckles and cudgel shoulders
And sledgehammer heels that dangle in the calm grey quiet of morning
Hungry tongue coiling around steak-knife teeth
An Edward Scissor-Hands of sorts
Shredding in my mind anything and everything that I hold on to
With face white and gaze empty
Looking about for something
Anything to dull the blades and snap off the heavy blunt heads
From my tools of self destruction
Sweat forming a chalk outline around my body where I once laid
Still and empty behind crime scene sheets
And I hate it
Waking up afraid of myself is not something I find particularly enjoyable
I know I'll never hurt anyone
Even if one day I snap
But I only say I know that in the same way that I know that things will always work out in the end
Or that everything happens for a reason
It's comes from a place of hope
And not of fact
Because it just has to
And to be honest
I don't know how many shoddy walls the bullet of bitterness
Will pierce through before at last it is slowed to a halt
Whether after it ricochets within the rib cage of the small child kept quietly in a barricaded room that
Is my sanity and purity
Or yet another wall I've made
And if at that point it will even matter that I stopped
Stopped yelling
Stopped hurting
Stopped the pain I paid forward
But someday I will find this dark passenger
In his sleep while he rests easy
And end him
Because maybe
With all of the foolish "research" I've put into my dreams and interpreting them
The people I kill are not quite people
But rather represent pieces of myself that I
In my waking hours
Continuously kill
Filled with dreams of being better and stronger and wiser
Miser with time and money
I fight to be the most wholesome person I can ever hope to become
So as to find peace
But is it really peace if I must kill all these pieces of myself along the way?
What then does that say about peace?
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