Frayed

Frustrated with language,
with the busted-strap luggage
of pre-collision lunge.

Flooded with aimless noise,
lulling myself to death,
not fast enough.

Fuck, this anxiety
bites chunks out of me,
nothing else doing.

Forgetting which toys
used to bring me rage,
light, a range of existences.

Funny that angst
angles itself into a poem,
though my mind is melting.