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The Horror

My skin fits like the old pants
I deny I've outgrown.
With every change
The feeling that I am becoming
More and more what I don't
Want to be
Increases inside my belly
Like cold metal
That doesn't belong and 
Nauseates me and
Leaves me with the taste
Of pennies in my mouth.

And everyday, I stumble-
With no direction,
Never heeding
Consequence-
Only doing what I must
In order to be able to sleep.

And my world keeps
Changing-
But I am still the same-
And my skin stretches
As the cold metal takes
Shape- forming
Something I can't control
Deep in my belly.

I face the future
With the horror clouding 
My view-
(Is this what Conrad meant?)

Is this how people die?
The cold metal horror inside
Forces its way to the surface
And in your last moments
You have no future
And only the horror remains.

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