it is a crushing weight that pulverizes your breath
grinds your lungs to dust and leaves blood begging for help in your eyes
it is an exhaustion, an apathy, a slow-burning acid pulsating in your heart
it is an apology, “i’m sorry, i should be fine”
it is a distant echo of guilt
remorse for the lives you cannot help but impact
buried by nothingness,
the ghost of feeling consumed by self-hatred and
What Breed am I?
What sovereign eye
Has cursed me not to feel?
Unless I cut myself to bleed these words of grit and death?
Who cursed me not to love unless
I first write of distress?
“You’re dead,” they say. “Stop
Masquerading. Let the curtain close.”
I struggle on, each breaking dawn
cracking more fragile bones.
How large I see the world and feel each person’s footsteps fall
How delicate I breathe the dust that swallows up the halls
I cloak myself in refuge and the darkness of my eyes
And I never let them catch me; no, how I have learned to hide.
I feel more colors than they can sense
I hurl my painted words at death
I catch myself falling alone
And curse the gypsy heart I stole.
We bowed our heads
i raised mine, instead
the reverance stayed. but my gaze strayed
onto your face
— you cheekily waved.
i smiled in dismay
and my heart sank.
These thoughts are not mine. If they intrude
One more time
I will cut them up and cast them down
Into the furthest depths of the sea;
Far, far away
Melting-me drips down my ribs
Myself withers and cracks my lips
my soul-glass chips and fogs
I stare down friends and family
as my Self slides down my bones
my heartbeat liquefies and loans
itself down to my
t o e s
Who spits molten lead as I?
Whose shivers leave stone teeth and staring eyes
Who bites the blood into prose and parade
Who paints the bruise into shades that don’t fade
Who lets the lightning in to translate the thunder
Who breathes in the glass dust to exhale the wonder
Who faces the fire to transcribe the burns
Who worries the lion to feel its great fur
Who walks under currents to see the sea play
Who jumps in the lava to rescue the clay
Who pines to feel pain just to write in this way?
Thank God, Myself gets to come along
Or the poet in my brain wouldn’t stay.
For that time I crushed you down
When you were just trying to help;
I was too concerned with me and Flattery:
My will became my pride, and
I looked down at you, a moment that seizes my heart with pain
To this day.
You wanted nothing more than to make me proud and help me out
And I shut you down.
I am gross and a coward. And my pain is pronounced
What fickle foul delineates my mind
What hissing sentiment I find
Caught up in pools of sticky-me
That clot my breath and misery
i seek to find more than myself
i want not comfort, fame or wealth
but to BOW before the One who KNOWS
THE ONE WHO CLAIMS THE HIGHEST THRONE