Insomnia
By Ankit Damani
white sparks surround my eyes now
addictions that will not leave anytime
soon
a second of sleep and it’s over, a mirage
nothing more
back to work where the devils must have
their share
of my flesh before it rots and ceases to
envelop my bones like
a warm blanket on a homeless man
droplets of creation are hurled out by
screaming eyeballs
they solidify and create the exterior
that I go on with, in social killing
fields.
yet I find myself wondering every day
wondering of other worlds
wondering if a single
moment not governed
by man will ever exist
wondering when to
release the secret.
and then it begins again:
like having an angelic melody
repeated over and over
for years
the first few days will pass on.
the efforts
to maintain sanity will only
start
to emerge after you realize
that everything
you loved
has been disintegrated into
incessant repetition and monotony
something that is inexplicable
something that is
beautifully convoluted
and yet so dangerous that
a touch will kill anyone. anyone but me,
who wears it
as a cloak
every moment of my life.
superiority
in its crudest form
steel shoulders cover me in a blanket of
apathy
as paper faces rest on each pair,
grinning with
evergreen agony, waiting to strike
those that have been,
all their lives,
as if all the previous beatings
were meant to dampen the effect
of this next one.
and they do, in a way.
at least their expression seems
worn out, and the flowing
ooze of red fury seems
like it knows what path to take,
like its tributaries and deltas
have been sketched out
in permanent ink before.
everything begins in
intricate performances,
displayed with zest.
the illusion is all that keeps me
from erupting.
Administration
“Many people hear voices when no one is there. Some of them are called mad and are shut up in rooms where they stare at the walls all day. Others are called writers and they do pretty much the same thing.”