[TW: Graphic descriptions and violent imagery]
I don't want to fall;
Conduct those ancient rituals which
Allows one to sculpt light into those
Sharp, blinding statues. Stealing my
Sentient map of the future while
Promising gifts of eternity and
A short-term everlasting calm flurry of pink.
Rewriting those sun-dipped scrolls that
Scream for a fantasy picnic on the
Fiery banks of the idealistic Styx.
Drowned lords our fancy and drowning men
A seductive death to us.
Yet their voices pierce cold hearts louder and
Clearer than the war anthems we've created.
Marching letters that fail to paint
Or sing of the underworld that birthed us.
This river tells more truth than our
Words combined. After all, we fondle
Our empty eye sockets and our skin,
Crackling with the cloaked delight
Of many stars. Our touch a torch.
Cave-mouth with a fat, rolling mist.
Beads of droplets singe the surface and scream.
Everything is screaming and the only thing we hear
Is the river flowing and our incomprehensible words.
The sensation of screaming is unattainable for us.
Why?
Slice through my delicate warm skin and lay
It for sale on harsh rock, as though I'm a butcher.
Collect my warm blood in the cusp of a
Dull-edged growth. Water my warm teeth
Replanted in those maggot infested gums.
Drink your rotten pink blood. Cleaved tendons and ligaments
Hang from my mutilated shoulders. A hacking cough
Takes over me, and in a dangerous procession,
I throw up my warm guts and enter the convulsion.
I declare war on myself.
No, pat your chest and breathe out ashes
Of all the burnt stars. There,
They will no longer teach you to live blindly.
All you have to do is swallow this spiked sword,
Let it mine a tunnel to that veiny star inside you
And stab it before it gnaws up your eyes
And turns you blind. Let the bones that stand near you
Master the sensation of screaming. Let the sound of music
Flower the seeds planted in your wounds.
On second thought, feed on the gift you now possess,
And allow the curse to comfort and cradle you.
Now since you've decided to never scream,
For if my scream scares you, then I will scream
Till you are viscera on the walls,
A husk, blind and deaf;
A rage, cradling nothing.
YOU ARE READING
Rhythms From a Quarter Life
PoetryI will die the very moment this poetry collection is complete, not a moment more, not a moment less. Yet, what worries me is not death but never being able to complete this poetry collection. These are the rhythms resonating from a quarter-life.
