The needles write love on my knuckles
while the blades write hate
I will not be stilled
till earth and water whittle me down
I could only wish
it would be quicker somehow
these waters are troubled
I’m crumbling as rubble
becoming the froth on the water’s edge
a slow release and decay
I wish to be dust not tomorrow but today
I am not a sabal palm
or anything other rugged
I cannot withstand eras
this earth is not my home but a cage
There is violence inside of me
drawing words on my tongue
they go down my throat like blades
I could cut the world into pieces
with my sharpened neurosis
how long can I keep it within
my face contorting
trying to be what the world wants to see
while the butcher inside my head dices and slices
death a thousand times and more
born from love, carved into hate.
Attempted to do a mini poem for every word for the Sunday wordle but my inspiration ran dry
Admit – A word that permits confession
as if words are solid
with mere flicks of the tongue
that could cleanse our dirty ought not to do’s
and what for but for redemption?
Flicks – A scar picked with the bend of words cursed
felt as if no other world exists
outside of their narrative
Scar – The stream that flows through
a rugged landscape
with all its liquid cruelty chiselling
us into formation
sharp as an axe after transformation
Remember – Scars leave traceable tracks
faces fade but what was felt remains
Dirty – Earthing oneself as if we became some other
cleansing in the soil to remember
the dust that made us
Hear – This pseudoforest sings your rite of passage
crows scalding you, your disturbance
of the rains tumult percussion.
My words are cheap
just like me.
I say what comes
to the tip of the tongue
but underneath the letters
is a skeleton waiting
to discard this flesh.
I keep trying to commit to life, living
but I think I prefer death
without the dying
maybe I’m just afraid
Like how the world turns no matter
the begging for it to stop
or how there is always something
that can live in the crevices of death
Because what the fuck does that mean to me?
It’s no comfort to me
that our energy continues to feed
the continuance of this monstrous world’s greed
Because what the fuck does that mean to me
when the earth consumes you
while I’m still above the soil
shedding skin, dying and therefore still living?
How do I shed you?
Or have you become enmeshed in my flesh?
If I cut my skin, do you seep out through my blood?
Escaping me, me escaping you?
I tried to become you
To see from your point of view
Isn’t that what We’re supposed to do?
Take a walk in the others shoes?
How come I’m angry and confused?
Is that because I’m you?
We rest unforgiven
Mere willowy meat on bones
Time hums it’s artificial tunes
Street lights blinking
As our prayers go on trickling
Through the myths we were sold
Too lost to run
We must accept our fate
Along with the birds
Full of spirits today
Back to earth tomorrow
It was with a cruel flickering
that a hunch lurched itself into my brain
it would stalk my footsteps
as I receded away from the monsoon
that made itself heard with a thud
as the lines wound tighter on my face
I ran on impulse
running through the empty streets
looking for a place to let this kinetic energy out
with a sigh
But it won’t be enough
The steam erased my face
and I thought this is the truest reflection
I’ve always wished to be faceless
so no one can demand expression
my lips don’t always crease right to the moment
and other people’s mouths pull tight around laughter
that the tightness is meant to hide
because it’s at my expense
embarrassment shades my cheeks
as I try to find the right shape
a formation of lines that are up or down
to draw emotion
as they lean with expectation
like they do when leading horses to do tricks
but I mustn’t get it right
or maybe it’s them, their faces that aren’t appropriate?
but no it must be mine because everyone agrees it’s me
my expression always drawn on by crayon
crooked and out of kilter to the moment
I am much too tired to keep up the chase
Embroiled in this decline
All my friends, they die
And that would be okay
If I had faith
That the cycles of life weren’t being erased But what the fuck is there left to say?
As I suckle from the teat Knowing no better way?
There was a time when even death teemed with life
It seems no coincidence
Our depiction of death
is the skeleton
Of a fellow homosapien