37/M/Litchfield Illinois Hopefull Poet
This is the blog of a writer who is sussing out life through living, reading, thinking, and writing.
https://soundcloud.com/graff1980 369 followers / 117.8k words
It is the face of a wraith, skin sagging, flesh falling, goosebumps crawling with supernatural sorrow and fatigue.
Bone thin, Sobbing, ancient pains rising from some inner lining of desperate darkness.
Living corpse in constant pain, choppy movements of echoed intent, only a shadow of the former person.
Drawn in an anorexic frame this specter reigns where once a full bodied figure danced in joy.
Nervous glances fearing they might catch this emotional leprosy. Society let her be, slowly rotting from the inside out. Till she was hollowed. Till even razor blades could not scrape away the suffering stain and pain of a relentless existence.
The chorus will ignore us. The choir does not inspire only praises the holy figures it raises from the dead.
These flapping feathers of holy white that flutter up into the night sky carrying those who were born to die;
They only do well in our fictional ****. They only excel when our ignorance swells as fools falter at the mouth of the cave where all other innocents dwell, waiting to be saved by the heroes we made;
But it has been years since I lived that way, walking away from the shade those incredulous leaders made.
It is lonely to seek reality when everyone else is ok with an ancient fantasy.
So, I pack my knapsack hit the railroad tracks and head back in to the black where all traveler eventually go cause as far as I know there is no Heavenly place waiting for me at the end of this waste of space we call the human race.
I find your sin deeply embedded in soft silk stiches that you threaded, the dark dyed lines you used to imbue your touch with more than the magic of love and ****, attaching me to the dangerous state of us.
A practiced deceptionist you are, spinning illusions with your webs of words,
oh deceiver, oh wicked liar I bind your mouth with twine and wire to trap your voice inside your mind but still become ******* in your webbing.
Tenuously tangled and mangled, I manage to unthread from you to find a new avenue to the truth, but just as I am about to unwind I find I am inclined to stay entwined with the very vines I used to bind you because I am not ready to lose the one who misled my lately leaded heart.
They only stop when it is their time to drop dead.
Not set in stone, not gonna finally go home, just becoming dust.
I touch the dirt let the earth run through my fingers and down to the ground.
I know that this stuff was once star dust, as was I, that every particle that plays a part in my being was once the heart of some cosmic furnace burning, exploding and finally coming down here to become me.