My life,

Feels like the turning point

Of a corkscrew.

Guided by an uncaring hand,

Burning and burying me every deeper,

Into the mass,

And growing density,

Of an unknown substance.

Deeper

And faster,

Turns the hand,

Until the unbearable heat,

Sears deep into the tissues,

Of my mind and inner psyche,

Ripping tearing renting me into fragmentation,

Ceaselessly unendingly until I am reduced,

To a blubbering apology,

Of human wreckage.