when the anvil comes knocking

when it comes it is like an anvil
mortaring sentience
i crawl like blattodea
into safe havens in dark corners
licking emotional flesh wounds
trying to find the juice in its lesson
 
hopefully course correction comes
from the brash ego
now bruised from stepping too far
into a burning sun
not meant  
for the unjoyful
the misinterpreted
or confused
 
don’t get me wrong
i do not wish to gain solidarity
but merely contemplate the truth of my place
as disfigured as it may be
in the minds of eyes upon me
convoluting my intentions
devouring purpose
watching them lick their lips with opportunity
their impulses cannot resist
 
i whimper silently
in whispers and quiet moments
too tender to reveal
 
the plummet
now the only pleasure
i can learn to enjoy