Kalopsia.

if my words were something i'd never read before.

i'd drown my head under the water,
if for a moment it'd make it all quiet,
if i could be more than just lamb to the slaughter,
or the victim in a riot,
i'd listen to the water submerging my ears,
and the feeling of fresh water on dried blood,
maybe i won't have to face my fears,
when i'm drowning in the flood.

i wouldn't feel the tight rope of cloth against my skin,
suffocating my stomach and thigh,
and then maybe i would be able to begin,
to feel each word as they say goodbye,
so they can burn my scalp and bones,
and to rip the tissue from where it sits,
on the bones that feel like stones,
under fatty bits,
with tissues of blood and vein,
veins of my heart,
the nerves sitting complacent in my brain,
i'd do a thousand silly quick pieces of art,
if my words could jump from my throat onto the page,
to create something i've never seen,
a collection of the feelings of rage,
and now it all seems to be obscene.

i'd write poems if the words didn't get trapped in a maze,
i'd write stories if i could believe that my words were never spoken before me,
and if the days didn't feel like just a haze,
and if there was something else that i would be,
i'd write songs if i knew the tune,
i'd write songs if my words had never been in an empty note,
and i'd stand below the moon,
if those weren't my words that i had wrote.

i would be so much more,
if i believed i was more than just another page in a story,
or another key in a door,
and my words weren't so gory,
to believe i could use them in each metaphor,
like angels with a dead wing,
or a lion as it begins to roar,
when a raven begins to sing,
sweet songs of nothing,
and words spoken by a liar,
and maybe i'd be bluffing,
if i said i wasn't dire,
to create something that i had never heard,
like something hidden in a nest,
or bird food to a bird,
that thinks its the best.

the crimson would stain on pale white,
and the quill of a pen would break,
but my words aren't right,
and my arm is beginning to ache.