when the rigid mass that gnaws at your stomach
is really the heft and poison of a sullen heart
My heart, a sinking ship
Bereft of balanced beams
Descends deeper towards its doom; Depth
creating elusive dreams
My hope, a shifting plate
Converged with reality
Shifts, shatters, shakes its foundation
A quake leaving heavy debris
My body, a tattered shoe
Weary from the long trek
Desperately pleading for its restoration
Left a disheveled wreck
Eight. 9. Try 10. Maybe eleven. No. 12:30 pm? I guess. The bed below me vanishes.
Life, ha. Oh, life. I didn’t know you had it in you. To create company so poor. So contradicting. Soul devouring;
limbs for dessert?
To let me drown in the company of another. To invert my innards, remove my senses, and spin me around.
Ready, set, go.
Down I go.
Life isn't always happy
Have you ever been in Love?
yet trapped in a box
with enclosing walls
but when you open the box
you see it's not you
the apparition of love is sitting in your box
all in congenial mockery
because you're afraid to be alone
Have you ever been in Love?
Because I have not.
When all feels lost.
Concrete becomes quick-sand.
I grasp for the shadows.
Within those shadows.
I hear Death’s laughter.
See His smile.
Feel His fire.
And I am comforted.
In the mornings I
think I will accomplish one
maybe two, probably not three
Euphoric peak that
diminishes with the un-
invited solar noon and fixed
I used to dream in black
A nightmare with a dark hue
Faces fleeting fast
all under the suspicion of
an indistinguishable mask
A world without empathy
Humans hidden beneath
a silhouette of self-absorption
Tenderness terminated by
an uncontested abortion
I'm no longer asleep
Rapid eye movement supplanted by
the torment of heavy eyelids
I stare out into the mean and bloodthirsty chasm of life
Up at the misguidance of individualistic rulers
This is reality
Brains are fickle things
Mine is a skyrise
With fifty floors
There is an open sign
seven days a week,
Seven thousand zealots
Devoutly at their keyboards
Tap, tap, tap,
Each floor oscillates in rhythmic unison
With the pulse of their caffeine ridden bodies
“Tell The Boss”
“Have you talked to The Boss?”
“The Boss can’t appreciate our work”
“She is lazy”
“Our ideas are worthless then”
“I hate her”
Work isn’t mandatory, but it won’t stop. It can’t stop.
They work too quickly for me.
Robert brings me his last report.
“You are undeserving of this place - of our ingenuity - a waste of its capabilities”
Ashamed, The Boss hangs her head.
A stationary girl that makes everyone else dance
That she is but a stationary girl
whose rigidity provokes the unwelcome dance of others. The solemn waltz. A sultry sorted salsa. But who is to say she can not dance
That she does not dance
A brazen fire of amorphous movement
Temporarily chilled in quiescence
Contained within the confines of a fabricated box
An assembled ballerina chained and bonded to the metallic rod of society’s construction. La construcción tuyo. You need but open the lid to hear my song. To see the girl that both spins and stills.
I implore you.
To the counterfeit steps of the inexorable womb waltz
you thump around with all your glory-
masses smile, clap, to great your eminence
before the roar, silence at the door-
the terror mute
no one there to rebuke
oh what it must be like to be a male
— The End —