echoing

Sleep comes and goes faster than turning on my heel and
swearing to never let the imprints get to me.
And it's just about as satisfying.

Words drip down my back and come to rest in my spine,
constricting the nerve endings that lay me down, when all I
want to do is let all of this go.

I have no reasons to fight them;
no meaning in these constant eccentric battles
that keep getting forced upon rested platforms.

Perhaps it's best that I smash this box across the walls
and let the static leak through the cracks
and fill the holes to complete seclusion.

Bitterness is fading so slow that I think it may have
developed a pulse; but heaven knows I can't complain.
Pixel-by-pixel fades are better than none at all.

My poetry's become prose
and the words have locked themselves up
in the box I still need to obliterate.

Just let me sleep,
and I swear I'll put a bullet to my brain
if it'll make your words stop echoing so damn much.