The Box

Emptiness is time unaccounted for and
depression just thoughts out of place.
Drugs are a welcome distraction,
with time to kill
sleeping saves
staring

Down.

Restlessness loses its edge
when motivation hangs stale
in the air with the bad taste of self
endorsed solitude.

Sex feels like a post binge lull,
heady and numb.
People are ugly,
bodies disproportioned
curious and sick.

Happiness is traded on
belief and confidence.
Bodies are traded on pretty
money and status.
I trade misery
for power and fear
and adrenalin.

Only to find
that the product of time honoured nothing
who floats up high enough
to touch the sun

Burns.