Everyday I rise to the same
routine. Tired and stiff from
the restless night. Haunted,
by the demons that plauge
my dreams. They laugh and
mock, make feel like brown
paper bag blown up and busted.
*pop* as my soul splatters
against the wall.

I step forward, fall, tumble
towards my breaking point.
Hitting the ground with a loud
*thud* would be a welcome
release. Eating the concrete
at speeds unknown. The feeling
would be divine.

I feep falling higher toward
the limit of my nightmares. When I
hit the top will my life come
to a screeching halt. Or will I
seemingly just disappear like
the rabbit stuffed back into
the magicians hat.

Falling down has a limit. A
point where you stop. Tumbling
upward, there is no limit to how
high you can be pushed. The lack
of oxygen in the altitudes of
my dispear, causes my head
to spin.

around & around

as I keep
falling upward.

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