jaded by the absent state of my mind I am no longer in charge of what I do. there is a face that appears in the smear of blood on the rocky coast of my heart and that face is mean, and that face is tired. I wear my pale eyes with darkness behind as if the sunglasses were created in the womb and coated with cells, the cells that puff up and down whenever my lungs decide to give my entire body a break from suffocation. the face in the roughness of my heart is much older than I appear because of it's butcher mentality - it is taken a beaten but does not render tender as you may think. the swells do not gain pleasure, do not give off passion. the pressures of this face, etched to my heart, is hardened with the experiences of the outside world. the barnacles of reality surviving off pain, there is no releasing such mutiny.