On Edge-------

Queasy
Sick to my stomach
Unnerved, uneven, unsettled.
Any sudden movement
Is a hyper-aware
Stare-on Stare.
Any jostle or footsteps
Makes me quiver
And snap my head back
Like a complete maniac.
Empty, like an uneaten light socket,
Or vibrant green goo.
Acting like a paranoid Troll
Stuck in Act Five.
My orange/yellow horns
Curved and short.
My skin
Grey as ash.
What would my name be?
nothing sinister or brash.
Scared beyond belief.
The ghost of “Jack Noir”
Followed me in my dreams,
He invaded my precious sleep.
Poked and prodded
‘till my yellow eyes
Bled red.
Frightened and cabulted,
Shaking from
The impact of a recent nightmare-----Nothing can compare-----
Black shadows
Dissipate into the
8am sunlight.
Five hours of being awake.
Calming down, but not quite sane yet…
Was this body, this spirit, this soul ever sane to begin with?
I’m afraid not.

My Troll name would be:
Fiona Watter
And my pesterchum name would be: (SS)
SoothsayerScribe

Stuck on Homestuck

Stuck on Homestuck
Is there any way
Not to obsess?
Impress?
Digress?
Can’t stop
Every night
Laughter and light.
Distracts from the pain inside
This here broken heart.
No longer at the start.
Twelve Trolls;
Eight Humans.
Twenty Souls
To keep track of.
It’s like nurturing children,
Hear their made-up stories and interactions.
Giggle, cry, weep.
Shake heads and sigh.
Grin ear-to-ear
Without quite knowing why.
These vigorous beings
Characters a-plenty.
Yet, each capture life;
Its aches, groans
Confusion, and strife.
So unrealistic
A fantasy world.
No words can describe it,
This web comic keeps on going,
Urging, sparking, expanding, growing.
Keep it all inside,
Though some dear friends have lead me to it.
It’s a one-person adventure;
Just please don’t overdo it!
Can’t get enough,
At least my mind is elsewhere.
Hidden, those blue blue eyes.
Hidden deep deep inside.
(For safekeeping…..)
Stuck on Homestuck,
Is there any way to
progress?
Guess?
Compress?
It all in one sitting…..

NO

This Heat------

Boiling in this skin.
Peeling off layers and layers
Of dead cells
As it pours
Pours
Pours
Down sweat.
Sweat spiked with whiskey,
Sweat spiked with pain.

A hot mess box
To remember,
As spillage veers near,
And rattling records
Bind the mind
In sharp guitar-stringed solos.
Boiling in this life.
A thick cover of strife
And bubbling bumpy callouses.
So much left to do.
So much to let through.
A whole day; wasted.
T.V. screen is playing with my mind
To become
Toxic, methitropic mush.
How can it re-hash and re-create
Into a blooming unique of grey matter?
Boiling in this room,
Basking in the disappeared hot-headed sun.
This heat,
Inside and out,
Swims in its own
stinky sour green vomit.
Neon green,
Alive and pulsing.

How to Catch the Crazy

To catch the crazy
You have to slice me open,
To the core
And watch me bumble, stumble, and squirm.
You have to slap me
Back to normal.
To catch the crazy
You have to burn me alive;
Soul and all.
Watch the trembles
Persistently fall.
To catch the crazy
You have to trick and prick my finger;
Twist me upside down
And spin me ‘till I hurl,
Barf, throw up
Into the open air.
To catch the crazy
You have to
Shake me
Flail me
Poke me
Choke me
Scare me
Flare me
Slap me
Pat me
Then

Center me back into
Reality.
To catch the crazy
You have to ignore me and treat me with disgust.
To catch the crazy within;
You have to think I’m nuts.

Strife

I feel tested,
Warm and congested.
Utterly pestered
By life’s
Contests of strife.
After pinching out
A highlighted soap drama follows me,
I just want to be free.
People are busy
As much as
I am lazy.
Is once enough?
Push and shove
Until the yellow light turns “red”
Dead ahead.
Bumps and gashes cover these slashes.
Not happy or grateful or sane.
Trying hard to refrain
From jumping in the open salt water,
And drown in the sea.
Loving and Hating what is;
What will be.
A two-double sign,
Clipped doves wings
And severed paws.
How far can this old dog go on?
I’m covered in fleas, ticks, and a sneeze.
Loving, yet the world seems to throw my shriveled carcass down
High ‘cross the town.
Disappointed and disgruntled.
Grumpy and trumpled.
Barely awake in hot pink clothing.
Rolling on by the hot, dry,
Crematorium.
Where all my inner hopes and dreams
Go
Bye Bye.
Fuck this dripping lube tube.
I am the stupidest woob dufus to ever be rude
And complain,
‘fore I gain
Absolutely nothing.
Is my presence
A being of billowing hair and neglect?
Why can’t I fully wreck this life/
All it does is pile with loads of
Strife
And more Strife.
Battling my weak senses,
But my nose is pretty good.
I can smell from miles away,
Zoom in on my prey
And devour alive any lug, zip, or pride
Hidden deeply inside.