Disenchanted

The murky silence of my thoughts is the loudest thing I often hear. See I don't remember the last time my mind didn't run a million miles a second like a strain of bacteria on a quarantine wind. 

Faces, noises, smells, screams, cries, phrases, and feelings - none of which are all that pleasant - pop up and down like a twisted game of whack a mole. 

From the alley ways of my subconscious they rush out and rape my peace and fill me with crimson regret. They tell me that they'll be here for the always, they remind me that I'm too lost to be saved. What's more is that I believe them. 

Like a haphazard, self-applied tourniquet, I wrap my ragged misery with every vice and venom. My wounds cry for the grave; my soul cries for deliverance.  

I'm a slave to my past, chained and malnourished and kept in the soggy basement. So many times I've tried to escape but I've tired from the weights that hold me in place. One day I might try to find refuge but it's not gonna happen today.