Fuselage

I feel the world spinning,

carrying on without me.

I remain, stationed

stagnant and static.

Buzzing in discomfort,

blistering in the heat of

the combustible refuse

of leftover excuses.

An exploding star,

Separating fuselage

limbs detach from frame

Splintering out into space.

Catatonic catastrophe,

I spew blasphemous bile of

purposeless penitent sentiments,

drowning logic in neurological mishaps.

My synapses are misfiring

This weight is more than gravity,

depravity’s disastrous grasp.

the exit is not the escape.