Plunging back to real. Being abreast of failure.
Balance is illusive when eyes are all down.
It is life dark and when the speech comes,
my mind crashes into the greatest hollow oak
and my tears feel chilly.
I confess my illness and hope for love,
which puts me in the class of asses who fail.
Not allowed to crash and love creeps away.
Failure after failure after blatant failure cram.
Fears fill all the cavities left by love.
My illness lights the fears on fire and laughs.
Burning in a world for which I am ill-suited.
Start piece by piece and hope begins.  Hope,
battling to the nothingness of death with fears.
Hope has fragile vessels and she cannot hold,
but I give her a poisonous lake to swim in
while I work piece by piece.
Holding myself together,
pulling the fish-hook
from flesh, and really,
nothing is together,
nothing at all.
If they ever leave again,
I hope the fears run far away and dive
into the Black Sea, but I am ill-suited,
am life created as a target for stacks of fears.
They always know how to come back home,
to come back and fester in my hollowness.