Obsession

I’ll cling to anything put before me, like a motherless child

starved for affection, nails trenched in flesh while suckling a façade,

another sparkling soulless idol trying to smother me in wild

twilight haze, masquerading as the brand new, better god.

O God, I’ll flood my blood with a hundred meaningless things.

I’ll self-confine to self-improve, self-impose surrender to intoxicities

running through my veins, taking any facsimile of vitality, binging

the sensuality and brutality of cold, callous, counterfeit realities.

Orpheus orphaned from purpose, rummaging slums of understanding

for something to justify my birth’s worth, I only find worthless excrement.

Not content with the distilled, diseased mental-sludge content they’re handing,

but I’m ravenous enough to ignore the decrement, detriment, and depriment.

In the scarcity of provision from relentless depression,

I’m consistently imprisoned in the depths of my obsession.