eleven

will it ever stop?
that tremor in the hands
that gradually faster heartbeat
that flow of uncontrolled thought
that creative paralysis?

will I ever settle?
will my mind stop screeching
with the silent sound of nails
on the walls of a jail?

I crave for the noise of life
to bring silence to my spirit
the uncontrollable desire
to slit open, gushing out
breathing
sleeping

never felt such detachment between reason and spirit
absolute peace one one side
a bloodbath on the other
a detachment from life, from the flow of present

feeling like a heavy rock is gradually sedimenting inside my heart
from scattered remnants of unfinished thoughts,
mea culpas, and mismanaged instincts

a rock made of vacuum