it was my own fault, the trust,
every step
every choice and chance
leading up to this surreal window-gazing;
(all mine.)
anxiety electrical, forgoes creeping, and shocks
(the block is back)
and i can barely think of my poorly-controlled anger, or the restricted growl in my stomach.
its the thought of eternity
a deservance, maybe even something cosmic
riling rumination (in the back, the pits, of my blistered skull) that never leaves.
i was drowning bulking fear
for what i deserved, what i gained
and then just like that-
my attention-seeking hell-throttling monster of a personality
shoved me through the abyss that is emotions- of love and of tumultuous rage, protective
to the apathetic state of
nihilistic existentialism
something of a thick familiarity.
God i reveled in the thick of it.
despite the smooth of glassy sap
briers consumed
(the metaphorical self, the hypothetical me that is a relative and poetic interpretation of what my own diseased and damaged cortices believe is my soul)
me.
harshly reminded how-
i only etch out skeletons in pencil lines
but hyperbole fall as pure matter from the gaping hole in my head that seems to have no end or filter.
no gate or gatekeepers to match its hideousness.
obsidian walls are never smooth
but jagged as aged wrought iron and
the heaviness of what should be nothing
(empty space; air molecules even
void of points on a map)
weighs me to the floor.
what does it say of the meager remains i call a
"personality"
that a whole self-
regardless of titles of labels of achievements and failures-
can be brought to lower than knees
to crushing into a floor
(one i might add is
not smooth laminate or wood
or tile; polished anything)
an unpredictable
shape-shifting landscape
that only ever seems to be mountains and ocean crevices under my worn feet.
say, cant a hideous creature
(human)
full of holes, defects, deformities, twists and turns
(wounds. beatings. scars and abuse)
catch a plateau every once in a while?
i wanted to say i was sorry.
to everyone,
to people ive never met.
but the thought chokes in my throat and i-
at least the sentiment
was a kind one.
YOU ARE READING
NEW HEARTS & COLD SEAS
Poetrywhen they seek you out because they know they can, because they know they can get away with it - anonymity is your friend.
