Let Me Sleep

Well this is awkward, I started to feel for a moment.
For a few futile seconds words I wrote became a world
and here I was living in that world like it wasn't purely theoretic.
Like it held some corporeal substance like it wouldn't soon fail
like I wouldn't soon fall and like I wouldn't soon lose it all.
So hold for a moment, let me write, let me recreate.
let me lay down letters that loop together into lines and lacerations
that leap from the page and surround me.
An imperfect illusion I dare say but one of my liking
and here I rest my head for another moment
let sensation creep from those inscribed wounds
until gravity pulls me back down to reality's crumbling ruins
that now feel darker and more like an inescapable tomb
where bone dust covers every surface
and nothing we do really has a purpose
but to perpetuate this failing state
this homeostatic conclusion
so much duller than my created illusion
and the red of my blood is a useless infusion
because it lands black on the page
as i stand in the back of this cage
with all the pain and pent up rage
because at this point it seems nothing will ever change.
The bars may rust but what is the difference?
Does any effort at all make sense?
Every movement, every action seems useless
and so I stop. Lay down. Quit.