I don’t usually write poetry, I just play music, but this is something I found on my computer from years ago.
I have pricked my fingertips to know the unknowable numbers.
I have changed and changed and stayed the same.
I have pulled the triggers of seven guns, and it has kept me alive in this war with myself.
I have wept and cursed, and laughed.
I have fed myself lies which are truth, when I see double, and I have starved myself of the feeling of hunger when I am angry.
I have devoured defiance by tasting defeat on nights when my body stings.
When I ran, in despair, I forced myself into tears and sweat and sickness. I have sat on stones and not had enough blood to walk.
I have become reliant on an unreliable system, which seems to trust in the untrustworthy.
I am angry for nothing.
I am tired.
I am resigned again, my hands working slowly to bleed.
I am afraid, to move from now, and to stay in then.
I am too low.
But I will be too high.
I will battle to find the end of the circle, where the few who have found how to balance stay level.
I will hurt, I will smile, I will feel useless, and I will raise others to laugh with me.
I will sleep, and I will find the stars behind the gray clouds in my daydreaming.
I will prick and lance and ache.
I will fill my body with spines.
And I will live.