Chasing horror

Masses of words lie jangled.  Tied in with your paranoia.  Thickly woven into the fibrous substance of your thoughts.  Your  mind reeks.  The sweet putrid scents of opulent ideas overcome it‘s every corner.  Fear is for the living.  Gelid showers trill down your crooked spine.  In raising yourself it makes a sound like a brittle ancient book being reopened one last time, then cast away.  You‘re in pursuit.  Your ugly eyes  trained on their prey.  A yellow glint in a thick forest.  Amber on a vicious green.  The cold smoke of your breath caught in your throat is only an afterthought. 

You still pounce.

Truth Deficient

I don't know what to make of this,
the show you like to put on,
pretending to be something else
than the one thing you are good for.

You stretch the truth with such skill
it's hard to find the edges,
or signs that give you up until
your skyscraper collapses.

You build your lies with little truths
you've morphed into submission
making it hard to find the clues
beyond all recognition.

And in your darkest moments
you're the blind leading the lame
you're your own worst oponent
but you delegate the blame.

It's hard to be responsible
for all your past mistakes
when everyone's disponible
to hide the truth away.

And in the end you'll find the flaw
in your illusion's grand design
that you can't reverse your own law
when you're feeling so inclined.

The Choice

In this moment,
stagnant with unspent relief,
I feel like a nerve:
Exposed and Raw

In each hand,
and no matter how brief,
a choice to make
each leaving me bourgeois.

In hesitating
one is yet exhausted
leaving me
with nothing but one option.