My soul is a cannibal.
Eats my words,
spits them out on a page
in such a delicate way
that I don’t even
know
the words aren’t mine.
They belong to the cannibal,
not my intelligent mind.
I regurgitate its’ feast
in slowly played rhymes.
And every shot at my soul
creates a hole
in my brain.
I’ve tried
to become
linguistically anorexic
to starve the monster
and no longer write
so it has nothing to
bite.
But the clamoring thoughts,
like a symphony of bells,
calls my soul to dinner,
and keeps my words
spilling
out of it’s ugly mouth.
I just hope someone hears
me in the writings
before hell drives me south
and the soul’s mouth
reaches up
for my heart.
The end will
be my start.

~kb