Saturday, October 09, 2021


When I look at my hands they look like someone else’s hands and when I touch myself it feels like there’s no one there.
A stranger with a low self-esteem bordering on insanity as these strange encounters only push me deeper towards the big sleep.
We’re fools, complete idiots if we believe the chiming bell is not chiming for us.

These hands, these ikons, these relics from a bygone era violently trespass through the fog of my memory and confessions mislaid.
I desire to break inside of myself, but I know there is no one home and that even Fort Knox has to take a break every now and then.
Resistance is futile when the oppressors you’re going against already know your credit score and that beating you is only smart if they’re the village idiot.

My fingers are too fat to hit the proper keys so the poetry is gibberish and that’s nothing new, just ask the hacks that proofread this shit.
I pick up the phone and ask for help and as I await an answer I’m convinced my innocence will someday no longer be up for debate.
Being an artist is a calling like being a priest or serial killer. The hours are long and the lines at the confessional never abate.

Feeling sick to my stomach and nothing I do makes me feel any better.
Starting to believe normalcy is overrated and the cautionary tale that is my life impresses no one, including my invisible therapist.
When I look at my hands I imagine them around my neck, but even that offers no comfort as I try sitting still while the grim reaper cuts my hair and shaves off this Moses beard.

Charles Cicirella

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