I’m sickened by the sound of everyone’s voice now. This feels like screws being twisted behind my eyes that have been smothered in glass to make sure I don’t see what they want me too.
More verbal brain-spew onto this page, dissected by this blue pen, when it’s engaged in my brain that black is not okay. So I stand defiant and hit with stones while still yelling through shredded lungs:
Fuck the tone of the bell; I’m not paying attention anymore. My blood pours out of my nose and ears with such punishment-like velocity that I’m cast off balance for a moment. Within that moment, I’m struck with an on-slot of needle-like depression that’s tainted with lyrical s.t.d.s that seep onto my skin and crowd my pours and hair follicles. More than ever to the point of sanity, it sleeps with modest strangers and can’t find it’s way home.
God damn perched crows!
If only frogs had wings!

Matt IRISH Moscillo