gears and cogs

i promised i would never admit it but i'm reading and i can't help but notice how addicted i am to tragedies, and i swear
for just a second i wished something tragic would happen to me so i could write these catastrophic, epic poems that strike
a cord in every part of my heart when really there's nothing in there to strike; i'm just a hollow shell with these ticking, moving
cogs inside me that clink and clatter to simulate my heart beat, and i'm begging for something real to happen just so i can see
how much these gears can really take, but truth be told ever since daimen left us for whatever there is after this nothing quite
amazing and nothing quite terrible has happened, like when a roller coaster malfuntions and you're sitting in the painful
silence of the freight cars, eyeing the friend that's sitting next to you with wide eyes and anxiety in your eyes, waiting for
you to either fall off the track completely or to rocket off back into oblivion, screaming and shouting and blaring your
swearing and it's cute. and i'm begging for a thunder storm so i can shout my lungs out, spinning back in fourth in the icy rain
that makes your clothes cling to you until your hair is plastered onto your face and you kind of hate it but you kind of like it
at the same time, and you want to be dry but you like the freedom you get from being soaked to the bone. i want to be
an artist, so i can draw all my bones onto my skin with calligraphy pen until it bleeds, just a little, just enough that
i can see the ink mix with my blood and i can smile and remind myself that yes, i am really here and that i am really alright
and that something great is going to happen soon, because it has too because life can't go on flat-lining it for much longer,
can it really? how much longer can i be braindead before someone pulls the plug on me and ends my half-hearted misery?