Ripped Open

What in the fuck is going on man

Seriously I’m quite confounded

Up and down and up and down, back n forth and again

 

and again and again and again

I swing my mind to and fro

 

as I stumble into myself,

words hang from me like

 

trinkets I adorned myself

like cracks on a broken

 

pane of glass, once fully transparent

now abject – a spider’s web; a hideous grace

 

momentary astigmatism,

ouch.

 

followed by silence cut short

like the hair on my head

 

and every drop of magic

has evaporated from the philter,

 

once full of whimsy now flimsily

folds in half; doubled over like a corpse

 

its mouth drooping into a frown

while the melt of sadness

 

forces it to hang its head, its neck

bends, it becomes itself without definition.

 

Once individuated like grains of sand,

Now a formless amalgam of everything it once was,

 

Its body is a ball in the palm of your hand,

Compact, and full of creases, until you throw it

 

And it shatters as it hits the floor. Crystalline shards

slide into every corner of oblivion

 

and so you ask yourself

“Who would dare pick up that mess?”

 

But no one else occupies the space,

So you rebuckle your belt, lace up

 

your shoes, and sweep everything

into the embrace of your notebook.

 

Reading this aloud you notice the venomous tip

Of your tongue as the speech impediments stir

 

Your boiling pot of self-doubt, suffering, shortcomings

And general frustrations with yourself.

 

There is no happiness there is no sadness

There is only the beat of the poem, its wings unceasing

 

Until it rests in the graveyard of you,

until it’s words become ashes in the wind…

 

So I keep the page open

And write until my wounds stop bleeding

 

Page be my tourniquet, because I’m not feeling these

Bandages. Joleen says I should take SRIs

 

But I’d rather press into the void of my mind

Reaching in with my entire self,

 

As if the topic of me were an aqua-ring –

A circle moving forward at the expense of its own

 

Mass; reiterating itself like a flower, blossoming like

Flowers on a tree, and its suddenly not so far-fetched

 

to tell the people sitting next to you who you are

and where you’ve come from.

 

And so then it becomes so incredibly clear that “you”

Is that indominable thing that is both self-contained

 

and infinite. Similar to “it” or perhaps “they”

but really in a league of its own.

 

Writing to “you” is like writing backwards on a window;

It is both an installation and a shattering of form.

 

“you” is tricky. “you” is double sided;

The versed, spelled out, and the inverted,

 

Subversive only for the sake of appealing to all.

Comments

  1. I allowed the introduction to fool me, but, truly, I loved the entire composition thereafter. The ending distichs where carried by a beautiful impetus which I could bathe in, and this sheet of epistemological overlay is delicious, although I am not sure if made with clear intention. I’d ask about the usage of couplets, but I believe it might simply be stylistic.
    I am intrigued, and likely to revisit your work soon, as I am almost sure to cull some artistic enjoyment!

    Liked by 1 person

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