I see blood goffered
On the edges of a rusty razor.
The trigger goes off.
It goes off,
To disband my lucidity.
I fumble to find
The perfect rhythm
In which I can breathe in
For the godforsaken pressure
Pounding my skull.
The tension,
It's intervention,
Smudges the colours of
The sticky crayons my cousin used
To portray my visage nothing like mine.
It's an escape route.
In imagination, I carry that face
Everywhere I go,
And marvel at how no one recognizes me
On the road.
I want to fly in that painting.
But I'm stuck in a film
That's rolling in an abandoned theatre.
Breaths turn faster,
And a friend says meditate,
And I try, try, try
Try the wrong, wrong, way
To read the glyphs
Soaring in my mind.
I feel myself in a simulation for a while,
As I'm staring at the earth.
The green and the brown
Steadily come back around.
The heart stops running and comes to a jog.
All the light I couldn't see,
I am now clutching it in my palms.
Echo.
Maybe I'm better, lighter
And freer now.
Looking at the old razor stained with scarlet
It's now just an outlet
To shoot bad memories off
And decimate their emotions
Over and over.
When the trigger goes off,
I'll remember to aim the gun
A different way.
YOU ARE READING
And the Petals Fall
Poetry❃ From one of the flowers in my infinite garden, I present to you a caricature of its petals. ❃
