When the beat and flash attack my senses,
when I quail behind dead ears and shut eyes,
it's clear there will be no recompenses
for the stubborn endurance I cling onto
My vocal cords might pack in through lack of use.
A brain weary of thinking and sick of knowing,
drowning in a pool of its own madness.
Look upon the lives of others and weep
for their mess.
The fumes of intoxication will poison
all good will and sincere thought.
I clench a cloth of stench, choke on
through the layers of euphoria
and find pain.
A pump between myself and the unknown,
I'm powerless to stop the draining that
feeds their rapturous indulgence.
When it's over I deflate, pressed down
by the unbearable weight of air.
At the edge I stand, back turned,
as society tries to fit in and implodes.
I walk delicately away from the
smouldering remains of your alien world.
© Copyright 2016 Mathew Nicolson. All rights reserved.