Distubed
A weird poem I'm thing of submitting to the image (my school's literary magazine).
Disturbed
In a white room with wall like a fever dream and
a jacket with more restriction than responsibility
That’s how I will spend the rest of my life until my heart
looses the battle it waged with my blood, chewing up oxygen
and spitting out life.
I suppose it’s a fitting end, living life with a secret
like a prison shank, smiles made of cotton balls and tears
from the pitiless crocodiles,
all perfectly, indistinguishably real.
but to me, as real as “no” is to God.
They were all crazy you know, Poe, Dickinson, Picasso.
Beasts or devils, light and darkness, faces that made Frankenstein’s mother
proud.
To them I’m mild, possibly boring, and tame.
Their demons and eccentricities lick their lips
and peel back the flesh of my hands like prosciutto.
But like the past I am patient.
While their minds burnt out with intensity of a flashbulb,
mine burns as a yarrow candle does, moldy yellow and hot.
They might have been crazy, but now they are immortal.
No one will forget their whine cellars, flower gardens, or
lover’s embrace.
What have I to leave?
The contempt for complacency , the drive to strive
for idealism, to beat normalcy down with blunt rock,
The ability to laugh words that make your eyes hemorrhage
like ripe raspberries.
I might live longer, but
Eternity, it’s as tasteless as air.
I have been born as devoid of emotion as the elements.
fire has more mercy than me, wind holds more love, and water
more pity for the drowning than I do.
When you can’t feel anything nothing seems to matter much,
words like psychopath, and sociopath, are a meaningless as
fortune cookies are to me.
So what will I leave behind?
children without lullabies, jobless doctors, teachers, anarchists, or maybe
unborn lifetimes without names.
Ask any one sane and they would tell you I should leave behind my body,
end the war and bury the dead general in my chest.
And why shouldn’t I?
All choices mean nothing and numbness means everything.
But you see, I’ve a reservation for all those years in my private, bloodless suite
and I wouldn’t want to disappoint the management.
Disturbed
In a white room with wall like a fever dream and
a jacket with more restriction than responsibility
That’s how I will spend the rest of my life until my heart
looses the battle it waged with my blood, chewing up oxygen
and spitting out life.
I suppose it’s a fitting end, living life with a secret
like a prison shank, smiles made of cotton balls and tears
from the pitiless crocodiles,
all perfectly, indistinguishably real.
but to me, as real as “no” is to God.
They were all crazy you know, Poe, Dickinson, Picasso.
Beasts or devils, light and darkness, faces that made Frankenstein’s mother
proud.
To them I’m mild, possibly boring, and tame.
Their demons and eccentricities lick their lips
and peel back the flesh of my hands like prosciutto.
But like the past I am patient.
While their minds burnt out with intensity of a flashbulb,
mine burns as a yarrow candle does, moldy yellow and hot.
They might have been crazy, but now they are immortal.
No one will forget their whine cellars, flower gardens, or
lover’s embrace.
What have I to leave?
The contempt for complacency , the drive to strive
for idealism, to beat normalcy down with blunt rock,
The ability to laugh words that make your eyes hemorrhage
like ripe raspberries.
I might live longer, but
Eternity, it’s as tasteless as air.
I have been born as devoid of emotion as the elements.
fire has more mercy than me, wind holds more love, and water
more pity for the drowning than I do.
When you can’t feel anything nothing seems to matter much,
words like psychopath, and sociopath, are a meaningless as
fortune cookies are to me.
So what will I leave behind?
children without lullabies, jobless doctors, teachers, anarchists, or maybe
unborn lifetimes without names.
Ask any one sane and they would tell you I should leave behind my body,
end the war and bury the dead general in my chest.
And why shouldn’t I?
All choices mean nothing and numbness means everything.
But you see, I’ve a reservation for all those years in my private, bloodless suite
and I wouldn’t want to disappoint the management.