Psycho

I don't know about this life.
I just don't know.

There is so much to love,
yet so much to hate.
Things to question
and dread,
push aside their existence,
out of sight--
I'll pretend they never occur,
or don't really matter,
for that matter.

I'm a coconut, a flesh-filled endocarp,
but some godly otherworldly survivor
is cracking me open, holding me up and milking everything of
value out of me,
drinking me dry,
right there beside the ocean.

Now I'm an empty shell,
my meat removed, flaked and dried,
and I'm falling,
falling slowly behind a waterfall
that's drawn in vertical lines
of colored blur
and illusion.