Adaptation Poem by J.R. Kelly

Lips quiver, eyes disintegrate into the dusk.
Dagger sinks into your throat,
skin breaks,
head collapses,
skull smashes,
lightbulb shatters,
ideas become a thing of the past.

It's self-mutilation at its finest.
It's your discouraging inner monologue
that lingers even over an ecstatic expression.

Intellectual progression
reaching a stand still
haunts the bodily thought process.

The ceiling keeps getting
closer and closer
as you descend
into chaotic misery.

You despise everything you're becoming.

Your smile pains you
more and more
with every glimpse you catch.
You're artificial.

Identity has been lost.