Incessant, ceaseless are my mutterings. Mumblings of no worth. Simply enough variation to hold my attention, as I fight to wrestle it back. I can no longer take it and my hand finds it way to the back of my head. And like glass. the surface shatters. Below the red wine, I find peace. Muffled, slow sound drifts around my eyes and ears. My murmers become soft heavy echos, and I may hold my attention to my chest. I force my head, denying air This is not a premeditated murder Ceaseless muttering drove me to this
Blog by Melbourne cartoonist Ry Hamilton-smith, mostly optimistic nihilism poetry and creative writing.