what am i doing?
must i be trapped
in an everlasting, never ending tango of flesh
with the harpooned spirit
trapped inside of my ballpoint pen?
hunching over a diminutive beast in gothic gear
that scratches my wrists often enough,
butterfly man in wired frame; spiralling snails they are.
slow in their evil but effective nonetheless, for my veins are throwing up.
beast is plastic- fabric can't shear my wrists.
but the plastic is nurse to a mewling bundle; the product of humanity
shivering in anticipation of my ballpoint pen.
funny how a goth can be both proud and emotional. not too different, are we?
my mind might be sick and vomiting words
and my soul might be hollow and bottomless
and my heart might be screaming to stop its incessant beat
and-- nevermind. how else do you propose i create art?
because words don't bubble with charcoal intensity
in times of happiness.
and my ballpoint pen wouldn't be pouring red ink
onto the entrails of a gothic beast with a steady pace
in multiverse.
my life screams art for a reason.
what a sheer waste.
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YOU ARE READING
ESOTERIC PHILOSOPHIES
Poetry-thoughts in the form of little rivulets that part from the undulating river of my cryptic mind in a poetic jumble of words- ~ e s o t e r i c p h i l o s o p h i e s ~ ©Aneet, August 2015 lowercase intended
