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corrupt me--
through judgement
slicing through my
naked flesh,
and expensive
machinery
around my neck;

remind me--
of every insecurity
until it engraves into
my conscience
and scars blur hope
the future brings.

defeat me--
for I am small;
vulnerable and a prisoner
to those words
stamped onto my arched neck
with your shoe.
A confrontation of society and the power of words --when used to dominate over another.
they roll off my tongue--
delirium, phantom, epigrams--
a complex combination of letters
with aesthetic effect to complete
the wondrous effect.

but in the end
**** everything
a foreign word
to my sensitive fingers
and ajar mouth

because while I've engrossed myself
in literary beauty, tracing the structure of words
I completely forgot the true purpose:
to convey meaning,
to explore expression,
to change.

So ****
**** everything
let that profanity
sit on my fingertips;
a commonplace weapon
against the word
dealing me a cruel hand.
Truthfully,
I relapse with a smile
and contemplate suicide
with a giggle;
because our society dictates
happiness, extroversion, ambition
should be carried even to
a grave dictated by
ourselves.
You; a distraction
a blissful escape-- help me
escape this nightmare
Let me tell you about public buses
with their rolling wheels and upright seats
where the driver entraps in his own world
and as the passengers, we in ours;

but there's a strange occurrence
when strangers share the same seat--
suddenly, we are sensitive
to their slightest movement
the deepness of their breath
our legs touching slightly, sometimes
ramming together throughout
this epic journey.

then, it's our stop;
we are at the window seat, our eyes darting
outwards, with a speeded heart,
our eyes focus on our
impending bus stop.

but before our words form
the sounds, articulate the words,
this stranger has already shifted
with a smile.

"Thank you," you say, stunned,
wondering how they knew
your feelings.
I wore my heart
on my sleeve last year
with a touch of agony
and the depth of despair
in hopes that you would
somehow love me.

But desperation,
I hear,
has a strong scent;
and when mixed
with fear--
and you could sense it
clinging onto my every
spluttered word,
every painted red lips
I hope you'd gaze upon;
the shadow of my eyelashes
imprinted in my cheeks
and the sweet delirium
of your voice;
a echo in the morning,
a whisper at night.

Today I remember
a year ago
how dearly I loved you
and loathed myself.
Aristotle expressed the notion,
that if something doesn't make you happy,
it's immoral.

And yet,
everything I do
is a means
to an end.
An interesting concept I learnt in philosophy class.
I
disappeared yesterday
with a basket of lemons
and an empty flask
of wine.

She
promised it would
never happen again;
and filled my hands.

They
faltered under my gun--
their large ears,
eyes,
mouth twitched;
I saw red.

You
ignored
my scarlet
hood.

He
is gone,
but I remain.
A rough-draft of my English Extension complex transformation poem. :D
 May 2015 Paris Elizabeth
David B
I think it's dope that we have a moon.
~~~

Is zero a number?
Is numb a feeling?
Is comatose slumber?
Is sleep now healing?

Is why a question?
Is try a verb?
When you can't shake
The ***** and herb?

Is static music?
Is silence screaming?
Is nighttime cursed...

is daytime dreaming?


SoulSurvivor
Rewrite (c) 5/12/2015
Written 2014
For those battling addiction...

It's not something you "give up"
It's something you LET GO.

~~~
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