It is strange to move unburdened.
Feet so light that
with each step they shoot high up to the sky,
Threatening to kick the teeth out,
or rip my thighs' tendons,
Restraint so foreign to them.

Quite curious my hands feel
released from the duty of holding me together.
Consumed by bittersweet emptiness
As they confusedly try to grasp
something, anything to hold onto or
at least the meaning of what "freedom" actually is.

So please be patient
as I stumble around in this awkward body.
You see, the me this free wasn't here for growing up
So I'm just beginning learning how to
align feeling with being
All Right

All my life I'd been starving.
This world offered me feasts after
Feasts but it seemed that even if
I swallowed the whole Earth
I'd still hunger.

One day a witch approached me
Promised me a magic sack,
That with the right nourishment,
Wouldn't ever empty
'Till I die.

All she asked for in return
Were descriptions of dishes.
Their taste, shape, smell, in detail.
For she can only eat
This way.

And so I complied with it, gratefully.
She casted charms, ordered me to eat:
"Just open your mouth, it's there."
Feeling groggy, I reached.
I felt it.

So marvellous, juicy, so fresh.
I praised that new found piece of flesh.
She smiled. "Dig deeper", she prompted.
So I'd broken my jaw,
Ecstatically.

Then licked the blood off my chin,
It was sweet and sour, just served.
How much further must I dig
For this feast's main course?

My beating
Heart.

I've stated it right away,
At the top of the page and my lungs,
a simple guideline:
"not about love"

Obviously,
that desperate rule got broken.
And so it seems only logical that
Once it became "about love",
all words left me
after such a blatant act of betrayal.

Can't blame them, I would've left myself if I could.

Unless I say something with conviction,
Better not speak a single word.
Having an opinion is an affliction,
Best that I went unheard.

The contentious masses choke on opinions.
Coughing, suffocating and spitting.
Each side disseminates their dominions.
Every "fact"-spewer unremitting.

Every one of them a man of straw,
Ablaze with righteous zeal.
So many blind to their own flaws,
Proclaim the same old spiel.

There's no room for fence-sitters,
no gray area or neutrality.
Dead men are the only quitters,
of this black and white morality.

Step up and say your piece,
And someone will find reason to **** you.
Otherwise, rest in peace,
Because you can't escape their petty feud.

Capture consciousnesses,
implement into
an amalgamated
substrates' soup.
Dissolve dark
pigments, promote
all-consuming oxidation
to tear
through thoughts,
seal strands
with wishes
of overcoming
indulgences, individuality.

Beauty beyond
reason resonates
with withering
minds' molds.
Shape-shift self,
melt mercifully,
pretty please.

Evaporate every
free-spirited feeling,
despised dearly.
Free from
humble humanity,
an astonishing,
extravagant, empty,
splendid shell.

A speckle of light in the dark
a thought, or is it a feeling?
I approach it cautiously,
protective gloves, sterilized tweezers, chemical test kits
Douse the specimen in iodine, apply indicators,
flatten, view under a microscope, put the images through filters,
Compare and contrast with previous samples.
I strain myself to determine its nature most accurately.

Is this feeling irrational?
Maybe justified, yet exaggerated?
Or real, true, pure...

I can't tell.
I bend, I break, I wring what's left of my mind dry
but these methods are proven insufficient.
no way to differentiate

I take off the gloves.
ELIMINATE
So there's nothing in the way
THEM
As I crush their wriggling bodies between my fingers.
ALL

All I do is turn life to dead silence

It's safe after all. unchanging, stable.

Pure black feels almost soft.

Nothing but void. Just this.

So simple.
Sane.







but next time, I'll try again,
there must be
A different way

Sometimes it feels as if I have no skin on.

Every blow of unfavorable wind
like thousands of needles
driven deep into exposed flesh.
Crowds of relentless, sandpaper-cloaked figures
tear off muscle, fiber by fiber
as they pass scraping by.
Gazes turn sunbeams into chisels
that carve fourth degree burns
into the sorry mess of these insides-turned-outsides.

Maybe I truly have no skin on. Maybe that's why they point at me.
Always with such pity, amusement
And disgust.