The Color Pallette

I am made of
rock solid
steel,
Hot wired,
phosphorous-fueled
rage
greases these wheels.
I'm breaking
my back
as you
bend
into a kneel.
Masquerading
as a victim
only helps the
truth
disappear.

Cancel my
appointments,
I've spoken
to God.
He says
he's had it with
the humorless,
colorless thoughts
that cast clouds
of gray like
tumors
in my brain,
cover my conscience
in concrete.
I don't want to feel
anything.

Remember that
the meteor
is always on its way.
I know what you're thinking
and I understand
completely.
I don't want to
do this
anymore