The Tunnel

It’s called time, the measuring scale standing between I will and I didn’t

And it’s all a matter of time till I convert promises into regrets

like a jet lagged traveller stuck between date lines and time zones;

I cant be sure that I left those moments behind like a hit and run with no witnesses

Is that why I try to forget more than I try to remember,

I can’t remember what I need to but I remember each moment I fall like I need to…

Time becomes a draw bridge slowly opening and thinning it’s planks into a sheet of paper

so thin that it’s transparent but this moment’s text will forever be recorded onto it

and folded to be tucked underneath my pillow as fodder for my nightmares,

even in my daydreams; my recollection is so vivid that I don’t call it remembering;

I call it time travel and I time travel so often there no longer is a now

just past moments that I’ve experienced much too late,

social cues that have reached their expiry dates.

I wish I could time travel back to the moments where the promises were still fresh

Not even now could pull me back from your smile

Where I am now get’s harder to reconcile

But I know there will be a place there for me to spend a while





I can’t tell if you’re balling up snot from your nose or playing the worlds smallest violin for me. (Senile Ramblings from a wise old homeless man pt 8)

And I’m emotionally done; nervous system on collapse, all neurons have fired signals heavily and erratically and now lie exhausted from stress, cognition on the decline, synaptic connectors have unplugged themselves like friends who are now enemies, head hangs low, anxious – so anxious that I shake on the brink of paranoia and insanity, all muscles and limbs twitching like the tail of a dying lab rat, I need to escape or else I think I’ll die here, my soul will patter out like an old light bulb, the grief will kill me, I don’t think I’ll get up if I dont find some leniency, some form of reprieve, I’m so exhausted that I can no longer launch an argument to explain myself, I’m an outsider in what I’ve thought was my home; it’s always been that way, I thought it would get better but it didn’t and I find myself crushed under the solemn pressure of my own past and pain, the recriminations echo out from the dark, I’m my own accuser, I’m hated because I exist, all I want is justice like anyone else who’s been wronged, there is no forgive in me. I feel claustrophobic in my own head. Now I need a rope to use as a means of escape, to climb from or hang myself from.