The 2 A.M Writer

Questioning the wreckage

Locked in a chest of my own hurt

No one else to throw me a buoy 

Trapped and choking under the angered waves

A broken stick under more contorted branches

Claw my way back to a fabled shore

Slit my eyes again to blind me from this same fucking punishment

Cast out to sea in a crate of my own madness

My compulsion coming back is almost an orgasm to my vices

The hair that pulls and tightens itself has been freed

Only to be grabbed and choked again

Goddamn this constant current pulling me down

A deity\'s cruelty or my own decaying thought?

Who\'s voice do I trust?

Can I be fixed?

So many are too rhetorical

Why bother even building the bridge only have it burned?