Back to when your bright, tinder eyes
stimulated the syllables to seep from my lips.
the current of lust shocked my lips.
Addicted to the taste- we lock.
You untangled my hair and pulled me closer,
your other hand traced my jaw and stroked down.
Warming up, neck tilted and tickled.
I shake my head.
A nocturnal songster whistles through the air.
I cut off my own ears in hope of some silence
but the torrent of white noise, with the piercing chorus, still rattles.
I thought that the bitter shower would wash away
the trodden paths in my mind.
Scalp-scratching and scouring my skin crimson -so raw- to strip the stress.
Terror bleeding from my skull and contouring my fragile frame,
flushed through the plug-hole.
Feeling frozen, I trembled into bed.
The thin fold of skin scratched my dry eyes
and the scars on my cornea altered an ugly collage
into something much more cursed.
A faceless shadow crawled across the ceiling
to laugh in the face of anxiety.
The gargoyles protect my silver crest-
the one that is tucked in a trinket box.
The piercing voices sew my mind.
And then they notice.
It was the bleeding that gave it away.
The bleeding of thoughts that seeped through the faulty key-hole.
And when it accumulated and poured,
like a stream of screams,
they stopped taunting.
Their attempt of mopping the clots off the page was more like
stabbing ink and scribbling words.
I’m more of a composer.
The words rush through my mind like: electrons in a circuit;
a glut of gore from the wound of weakness; a torrent of insanity from the beer head.
And then I have to stop.
That’s the most difficult part-
having to discipline and arrange thoughts to create art.
It takes time
and time is what you (nor I) do not have.
So let the words ooze- let them boil with thought.
Let the words dance through your veins and circulate your body.
Then throw them together, give them more clout and
etch them onto whatever is near- paper, wall, table or skin.
Let your words clog somebody’s arteries.
I gave you the stars, you passed me a rose.
I told you a story, you sighed.
I listened to you and your tangled worries and waited for you to listen to mine.
I’m neglected and you’re still aching.
I can’t extricate the bonds
but I promise you that
I’ll always be patient.
A little festival
This great invention
to display our emotions of wanting:
to turn pain on Earth
to make you smile
“I’m here for you”
there’s nothing left because you knew.
…I’ve posted this poem about 10 times and each time I post it the format looks awful. This is my final attempt of posting it so please forgive my poor soul if it appears shit.