Fuses. Burst and burning.

I am a fucking caged animal.
Give me a thousand planets to burn with a thousand occupants deserving of my wrath. there is not enough blood in the world to stop the thirst. There are not enough bullets on the planet to sate my desire to unleash this shit storm inside me that's broiling to a frothing stew of confusion, hatred, love, and betrayal. An open sore of hope having salt and sulfur poured over it. Endless container of Morton salt upended into my tear filled eyes. And all I can do is lash at inanimates with dull swords. The only victim thus far: an ugly chair. And still it rises. Bile. Ache. And I am powerless to get it out of me. I envy the surgeon with a blasted leg and a mouth full of leather. Fetch me the fucking bone saw and let me hack the fucker off. But I can't get at it. Like a piece of meat in a molar, the more I try to get at it the deeper it crawls. A fucking parasite in my gut, a maggot in my mind. And nothing can help. I am alone and weary and without hope, compasion, regard, vision, means, love, station, or purpose. I am a warrior spirit trapped in a merchants role and the only fucking thing I can do is pound away at this fucking keyboard as Mozart blasts me away from this hellish prison I've made for myself. Just me and the screen and a sense that if I just channel it into the fucking internet somehow my pain will disolve itself. Who knows? Maybe I can fucking link affiliates to this shit and find enough sadistic fuckers who like wathcing ants burn in the sun to support my anguish well on into my thousands. I will be a blind, legless stump. Only two hands eternally pouring out the impotent frustrations into the fucking cosmos. Probably not though. The internet is like the cosmos in that it doesn't give fuck all about me. It's as neutral as the void and as cold as the ice caps. I return to pacing back and forth my 40 feet of freedom. Staring out the window into the same sad parking lot and the same sad dirt road. Hoping for a car that will not come. Praying for a plane to sheer through my room and sever this red and trembling line of my life and blissfully send me into darkness, and a fat insurance check to my loved ones (spend it well my dear). Pacing and pacing and thinking and dreaming and cursing and hating and opening wounds with forceps of hindsight and peering into the puss filled wound with facniation and regret. No drugs to calm the mind, no sleep to silence the chorus. Just remembered fantasies of the end and final scenes played out to their unhappy and pathetic conclusion. At the end of the road we all end up the same: failures in the eyes of nature, and food to the continuing masses.