It’s not chaos.
Pure, boiling shrimp,
right at the lid of my head.
The hippo kicks wildly at my innards.
I need help.
Lock me up and let me cry,
my plea, but I’m stuck,
trying to be perfect
rather than admit failure.
And allowing the boiling shrimp
to eat at the roots of my soul,
and I drift through the chaos,
wearing old pants,
feeling dead,
but not good enough
to be dead.
stillfugue 
#1 by Carl D'Agostino on March 1, 2012 - 4:28 am
but not good enough
to be dead.
So it is in life that our hell is to be found? Well I can certainly attest to that.
#2 by Carl on March 6, 2012 - 6:44 pm
Yes, you understand perfectly. Thanks, Carl.
#3 by siubhan on March 8, 2012 - 9:02 am
I’ve felt this. The boiling, the hippo… and somehow the detail of “wearing old pants” just takes it to another level for me.
#4 by Carl on March 13, 2012 - 6:19 am
Thank you for your comment. I feel so lucky when someone identifies.