The taste of fear,

Smells like procrastination,

A countdown to destruction,

Self-loathing masturbation.

Trapped in a cell of guilt,

Shackled by the song and dance,

There’s an apathy that cracks my bones.

Words scribbled hastily

Like a blood-shot faux pas—

Can’t indemnify this derailment.

This meaningless, seeming

Less or more

Like nothingness.

© 2014 Christine Bradley