I am tallying the number of holes that
I have pounded into these walls.
Each one communicates a different message,
and none of this is my fault.
The damage caused by the deafening silence
of my unbearable existence is the result.
There are many unavoidable things, and as I wail,
I am blamed for the noise.
My wounds continue to worsen at an increasingly
rapid rate after each impending attack.
Like a caged animal, I am frequently neglected and forgotten.
I am drained of energy from fighting so many ongoing battles.
I know that there were never a set of keys to unlock my shackles.
I do search for them, desperately
trying to escape through the holes in the wall.
They beckon me from the walls,
urging me to escape this way.
They command me to strike them,
pleased when I bleed all over the place.
My mind is so clouded that I can’t
remember that all of this is a lie.
The blood that flows from my knuckles
is their energy needed to survive.
The holes that I have created serve as a gateway to the flames.
I am instructed to hit these walls daily,
after which my mind is erased.
The voices cackle in the darkness from within the holes that
I have created, fully aware that they are in control
and that I am easily manipulated.
“Ravished” would be the more suitable term,
as they overpower me like savages.
The voices consistently instruct me to add another hole,
add another scar, and shriek yet another scream.
The blood is constantly flowing from the new self-inflicted wounds.
I am forced to do this, and when I refuse, they get louder,
meaner, more demanding, and more intense.
I am a victim of my own chaos, constantly barraged by
overwhelming emotions and destructive thoughts.
No matter how hard I try, I cannot break free from this cycle.
My attempts to overcome it only results in punching
the walls in frustration, yet they never seem to budge.
It is as if I never had any hope to begin with.
I am fed up with this.
I am pacing now, just as I do every day.
The voices grow louder as my fists pound against the walls,
but I know my actions are useless.
I can feel my insides failing.
I hear them crying out, ready to die.
The holes disappear overnight, even though
I have punched out thousands upon thousands of them.
They taunt and haunt me daily.
I have exhausted all ideas and efforts, yet I remain
unsure of what else I can do.
These holes persistently urge me to create more.
The walls heal like flesh in this place, but my knuckles
are shattered and stripped of skin.
This appears to be a game in which I was never meant
to succeed – never intended to win.
Damn you, holes, here we go again.
This cycle of madness knows no end.
I am fed up with this.
It is as if I never had any hope to begin with.
My attempts to overcome it only result in punching
the walls in frustration, yet they never seem to budge.
No matter how hard I try, I cannot break free from this cycle.
I am a victim of my own chaos, constantly barraged by
overwhelming emotions and destructive thoughts.
I am forced to do this, and when I refuse, they get louder,
meaner, more demanding, and more intense.
The blood is constantly flowing from the new self-inflicted wounds.
The voices in my head constantly urge me to create another hole,
add another scar, and let out yet another bloodcurdling scream.
This is what I refer to as a "DisasterPiece.”
