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Apr 2019
the ******* claw at the bone-
their skull cap bastille,  
domed in like ants under a bowl,
whispering and itching,
searching for any crack or hole...
They are possessed.
and so they pulse like an enemy drum
Hostile and sonorous,
Pounding the mind with a beat.
Release, release, release...
My myriad, my
beautiful collection  
of muddled madmen, transients every one,
How clumsily they lust,  
and with sweet earnest,
for the lines of my notebook
or the empty air around my lips.
Some I swallow deep to still the frenzy,
Suffocating language in my stomach.
Others I concede to spill out into life,
I am indiscriminate.
watch the lucky ones stumble and run like blood,  
towards liberation by bated breath.
Written by
Elijah Bowen  18/M/West Virginia
(18/M/West Virginia)   
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