the monster under my chair

I couldn't write

because I knew

I couldn't hide

my weakness and my fear

of what?

I asked myself

until

the weight went of my chest

in order to

forget

hide

rest

I hid my pain

under my chair

and if I'm honest:

I think it's still there

but I don't really dare to look

sometimes it's easier to be blind

to act as if one doesn't mind

the part of light the fear must've took

the aspect of my soul it shook

I stand here with a hole in my back

a hole big enough to

crack

sanity down into a joke

crack

my existence

like a line of coke

into abusive states of desire

to always

always

look for ways to rise

higher,

forgetting that I don't believe in height

in better or in worse-

I might

become a hopeless nihilist

(with a slight spiritual twist.) I thought if I don't speak the word

it also doesn't hurt,

but now the monster sits under the seat

and I can't find it with my feet,

so if I bend down to look at it,

I might collect another hit.