Damaged Goods (A journal entry of Maxwell Bennet)

Put me in a crate and label it damaged goods.
Place it on a plane to nowhere and post with no return address.
I am so fucked, my head throbs and my body shakes.
Pain shoots through it, like a hot knife through butter,
or even better, flesh.

I had never asked for this but had it thrust upon me needlessly.
It wasn’t always like this but it’s all I remember.
Where did it go wrong? When did the tower begin to topple?

Never mind, the questions may never be answered.
Uncertain in my ways I merely procrastinate, delaying the inevitable,
the point where the final brick falls from its unstable post
and crumbles upon the ground below.

Breaking point, ground zero, it all means the same thing; a means to an end.

Hypocrites and hypochondriacs are all I see, living their life like sheep.
I hate every one of them and I know the feeling is mutual.

Jammed through my heart is the unpleasant sting of things unwanted,
dreams crushed by unavoidable nightmares.
Hope of relief is nowhere to be seen
but I’m still too gutless to pull the fucking trigger.

It’s been like this for so long that it has become nature,
but when tides are turned and the chips are down
the natural process becomes a violent reaction.
Order is disturbed and chaos ensues.
Like a hand grenade in a children’s playpen
it’s inevitable that someone will get hurt.

I’m so fucking tired, yet unable to sleep, a
freight train barrages constantly through the depths of the unknown.
What I don’t know, as painful as what I do.
Push it down and forget it ever happened.

Journal Comments

  • Matt Penrose