"I'm painting an abtsract."

My skin
is burning;
it's turned sickeningly Yellow:

I'm drowning like a rat in my own saccharine toxins.

Daisies and pinwheels turn to blood-tipped finger nails,
smeared under my eyes and trickling from my mouth;
my sheltered eyes have learned not to look away,

and oh,
oh.

Yes, that too;
I've learned to clamp down and keep my mouth shut:
the blood is everywhere, the lack thereof is in my mind;
and I'm raving and screaming,
"There must be something!"

My wordvomit-stench and my hopeful child self--
they all prove disappointing, embarrassing,
and simply stupid...

There's no where left
to take refuge,
not is structure, not in sonnets;
not in deep, empty stadiums--

there's just this,
this--
but where did it go?
I'm sitting here, staring,
chased out of my own life.

Slowly ticking awa-
y.

...

He appeared awake,
my brother,
but he was sleepwalking.

I asked him
what was he doing.

He told me that he
was "painting an abstract,"
and on it was written something like, "Freeze."