words growing like diseased trees through filtered sunlight

alone with enters and period signs and blank page, (fullstop)
breaking up this poem into particles of .me.
(and oh, how it aches)
but better than to flow in an unrelenting torrent
that threatens to sweep away everything I ever was
and leaving me with nothing for the "will be";
it creeps in so silently
I didn't even notice when the walls cracked and spilled dry paint
in the cracks of cold tile
like small piles of poison moss,
chemicals breaking into the form
and reminding me why I don't take pills
as I watch nature slip away

and the ruins are left with me standing beside them;
within the world I created by fumbling
(what a foolish god)
I don't know what to do with the dreaming
it wouldn't stop come nightfall
so I tried to cut it out,
but was left with sticky fingers
and mere silence in the wake
as the drip drip drip builds
and terrifies me (how much am I losing)
through it all, is this victory? when I got exactly
what I wanted
yet lost the life I'd carried so long (in a backpack),
mistreated, despite all I've done

writing of this sort
with torn fingernails to the bone
is the last essence of tomorrow (do these words even mean anything?)
a picture done speaking of the worlds it's seen
folds in on itself
and slips back into your pocket
as you walk down the street
thumbing these well-worn creases lovingly
and wishing you only knew what they contain.