Trapped in Despair (a sonnet)

The cry and sadness met in the same place
Agreed to destroy one's immunity
In this world of sorrow he shalt embrace
His corse down to his soul's insanity

The universe of gent makes nay wondrous
For inside his soul art catastrophes
Feelings w're made for solely perilous
For words transform'd into anastrophes

But my heart whispers, thou art life I owe
Thy ghost creeps mine own spirit down to death
O, ye wraiths were haunting me years ago
Neither life nor death is worth the last breath.

Fearsome to live this life without verses.
For in life, all I had heard were noises.

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For like a conveyor belt I lay before you my present: prosthetically decapitated head; well decorated with crystals; synthetic beads; a barbed wire pierced through the iris. Hungry men before me: I examine, I hear the borborygmus, tingling sensation when my plastic bones crack and break the ceilings. A mirror on the wall where mother used to lean her idealism against. Now rest the rusts, webs of a Black Widow, which is not native to this house: as her now demeanor, as her now demeanor, repeating, reeling and reeling as I sit trying to weave, for my soft dreams have now become plagued long before I dared to sleep my heavy. As a belt: I lay my body as they try to fit the loose holes to fit my thinness. My insides as they churn from a deafening machine audibly discernible so my father could hear, yet faint as his late regrets.

24?

"Twenty-four seems scary," I tell myself. Sometimes, I tell jokes, or mostly, it was conveniently told, like how a laugh returns and introduces itself as villainous friend, but an enemy is the positivity that takes. It is so much scarier when it visits me: a quicksand brought by faux geniuses, a peeking sock-made puppet, I am a whole drama— a ventriloquist of his own dreams. Delighted by my father's cake: "Happy birthday, son!" I still know how to stay still when everybody sings me one. My Mom gave me bills: Money is an angel. Indeed, for it lets me fly out of the reality— out of reality that everything is still made of infinite loops, as in manmade experiments, and how they can be destroyed by one gentle blow.

Papier-mâché

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