clutter
Hollowed out, bare
Like the chamber of a seashell,
Nothing but the resonating ambience
of the blood circulating, inside my own noisy mind.
Wherein behind it, maggots scurry about yielding daggers,
Sounding like rain, to you, cacophonous, to me.
I could give you a million colorful adjectives,
And all you would see is twelve shades of gray.
I could sing a million songs at the top of my bleeding lungs,
And the careless misinterpretations would drive me mad.
Why do I feel the urge to dissect all my organs,
Stab them all down with a million t-pins,
And explain to you, the anatomy of my heart,
where, in clear sight, it should have been seen
without validation of existance, without credentials or judgment
or pre-conceptual antagony, harsh ideology.
And now I reevaluate, everything I thought I knew solid
Everything I thought dire & prerequisite.
I make these metamorphoses while the world all sleeps,
while they eradicate eachother with lies, pointing fingers,
Ostracizing any turbulence tied to the truth...
while you sew yourself tighter into your cocoon,
counting all your immobile legs repeatedly,
in case one may have been forgotten,
potentially offsetting a scrupulous imprisoning balance,
while crushing the wings fused to your back you refuse to acknowledge.
These things, intangible, meaningless in comparison,
Small little fucking things, sticking to lips like gnats,
I question the importance of it all
The simplicity of amendment is clawing into my back
Tiny nails, ripping me apart slowly
With all the sheer irony of japanese water torture.
I have a million and one ghosts,
Of which you don't believe in,
All of which I'd forced down your throat with my bloody hands,
-why did I keep them all inside, locked up with me
And continually feed that doctrine unto you.
An affliction newly instigated in me,
after a lifetime of mistreatment, a tyrant for my own survival
taken too far at times, trying not to repeat history,
when actually, may have materialized the past
into the present, with unnecessary inflexibility.
We made volcanoes out of mountains,
Detonating & evicting all the valuable details
diluted with each crashing wave,
but returning with each receding tide.
Loving the ocean, with an allergy to sand-
better simply stated, as elective drowning.
And this will page look as nothing
but words to the rest of the world,
-to me, something far more meaningful
And sand will be just "tiny little rocks" to you all,
Sticking to your skin, invading, crowding, covered.
I could roll in it, and love the feeling.