Jan 10, 2007 17:10
4:51 AM; THREE MINUTES FAST
This; is a ritual.
Where the heart races, and the thoughts pound.
This; can be a spectacle of sorts.
The low murmuring of a television too loud in the next room.
Intertwining of cigarette smoke and yesterday’s makeup.
Eyes watering; fists clenched to white.
A cold blue will resurfaces;
shades of beige covering this tired window.
This; is a ritual.
The pen marks the paper with insomnia.
Mental anxiety balancing out through physical convulsions.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Repeat.
The chest and the ribcage rise and fall.
With a rage of their own.
This; is a ritual.
Taking place well after the midnight hour.
When the city sleeps; if this pollution factory ever sleeps.
Grinding teeth to dust.
This devastating ceremony of bodily injuries.
This beautiful malice, wonderful passion of anger.
One of those “manic” nights again.
When indisposition crawls through skin,
leaving marks of psychotic envy, for the comatose.
Late night television is the worst.
Do people actually buy the knives
the food processors sold between the hours of two and six am. ?
This: is a ritual.
Wishful thinking of prescription pills to sooth.
Tired dark colored eyes watching the world tomorrow.
The hemorrhage softens with the sun.
But the blood still boils at a simmer,
waiting for the next of these insane nights.
This; is a ritual.