Portrait of the Artist as a Prisoner, Part 1

...i'm crawling naked on the floor...a crawling, compressed coil...my jaw, my neck are clenched in pain...i am voiceless but i manage a whisper, "Help me. Help me."...i'm staring at the cheap end table...the two red dots are blinking on the clock..."please help me dots, please tell me what to do"...i don't want to die... The sign posting, maybe it was too much for me, like a bullet whizzing past my ear. I pretended it didn't bother me but it has. I haven't slept since I put it out. They will read it and find me. I can't be shaking my fist at the the world, my thread to life too thin. Drinking from the well of life renewed my rivers of frustration. It pained me to part with money horribly earned, but I had to get a room for hiding. I needed a cell of my own. ...nudity is a sin...if they break through the door and see me like this, it's all over for me...guns drawn, barking at me to explain myself...a man in the back, "Kill him! Kill him!"...they always have to win...come on, red dots, tell me what to do...did Tiger Woods really win five in a row?...how can he stand it?...it must just be building and building...when he loses, he'll be a fraud..."You said you could win every time!"...they're always looking for blood ...i can't leave the room...i can't be seen like this...the world is outside the window...but not for me...PTSD, i shouldn't have posted that sign...i'll write Debby, this is the end...she'll have to stand before God and say why she said nothing when I told her I needed her...i need her understanding ear...i'm a crawling cripple without her...please let me find rest...tell me what to do red dots...