Hand on heart, pushing through skin
and flesh and piercing the inside
With four sprawling fingers topped
With a reluctant thumb, I resurrect
A fatal organ that carried my blood
My kin, my ooze, my inbetween, my-
Impatience combines with sin,
A silver slither of tantalus and, I feel bad
Agonising, tearing each tube and blessed vessel
Away from my reason to be, still
I kitchen sink into my self, the waste
Food in the basin gurgles, feeding time.
And there I can find the cold clockwork
A chamber of souls finding rythum
Weaving in and out, my omniscient pendulum
My metallic hum, the reason I'm not done.
I just want to hold my life in my arms
YOU ARE READING
What He Told Me. Poetry
PuisiI was told to share what I write by a guy. This is what I've done. Some of this is dark. Some of this is the inner workings of what is happening in my life. Im sorry for making you read this
