Just Because I'm Losing, Doesn't Mean I'm Lost

Brush the dirt off our knees, there's plenty where we're going. Dunk your head with me and be born again into this spectrum of dust and delirium. With my head full of bottle caps and bones and your fist full of candy wrappers and stones, together we're only half of one whole. Dozens of states separate our fingernails and millions of miles divide our eyelashes. We are continuing to keep away from our hideouts and stashes just for the purpose of saving ourselves from painful bashes.
I'm still losing, but still not lost.

Endless Revolutions of Glass

A breath catches and shudders in my throat. My neck cracks in anticipation. A few physical signs of the stress pounding on my brain. Banging their deadly drums until the skin breaks and splits into slivers of useless, filthy remnants.

Your thoughts have become a revolving door; constantly allowing things in and out.
Is it out with the bad, in with the new?
In your case, it's more so out with the good, in with the bad.

Soon, I will jam your door and stop these insisting thoughts. Cease the bad from entering. I only hope your mind isn't already overwhelmingly corrupted.

The Age of the Understatement.

It comes creeping up on you, like running from a sunrise. It slithers around the marrow in your bones until they crack, split, and fracture into microscopic fragments.
Resistance is only the enemy, to bypass and withstand is heroic. This age is understated to an extent so incredible you'll die.
It does turns inside me, as if it's a ballerina in my pocket.
Interpretation is a privilege so let your eyes fry with me.