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Sour, my attempt to write – the flavour lost in every bite. Undecided words, unheard, but seeping out, expelled, disturbed; a self-invaded, cornered bird, un-winged and clipped from flight, while I rumble with poetic temper, my bleeding soul, in part, dismembered; blank, un-whole, alone and undefended. My belly full of passion, yet, my appetite untended, and expression jailed and flawed, dissolving quicker than it pours; a vat of garbled, bubbling troubled thought that rivals typed impression sought to pillage mind and spill from core. Scored, the days it takes between, in floor and wall, to key the lock that binds this isolation door, ancient finds arising in my lust for seeking more and more; buried words upended with surprise, and unintended, for, from I, the Jailor, baseless accusations rise, lashing, fast, acidic wind that primes the rhymes I tongue within. Never one to coat my words too thin, too dry, too weak, it seems (by definition) I resist to drown (at best) or leak, while anchored here, existing, in unblinking frozen speech, but the accidental draining of my purpose-tended bed of prose, is waiting hand on foot with sweetened suicidal pensive throes, as I, with mocking rows and rows of written doubt, release, in lines, my stomach churning through and out demands to hasten one true last and final shout, so, this filtered care that stains my lungs with ghostly stare and soaks my throat as vomitous as stinging air that leaves me rendered, flailed and flared and wounded, brooding, undeclared – through THIS the words escape, an icing on the freedom cake all cherry-topped, and cut, and baked: a timeless meal to share without the food to waste, the friend to taste, the key to exit, smitten, from this solitary mind-induced persisting empty prison space.
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Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 1:04 AM UTC
THE JAILED FREEDOM OF WRITING
Sour, my attempt to write – the flavour lost in every bite. Undecided words, unheard, but seeping out, expelled, disturbed; a self-invaded, cornered bird, un-winged and clipped from flight, while I rumble with poetic temper, my bleeding soul, in part, dismembered; blank, un-whole, alone and undefended. My belly full of passion, yet, my appetite untended, and expression jailed and flawed, dissolving quicker than it pours; a vat of garbled, bubbling troubled thought that rivals typed impression sought to pillage mind and spill from core. Scored, the days it takes between, in floor and wall, to key the lock that binds this isolation door, ancient finds arising in my lust for seeking more and more; buried words upended with surprise, and unintended, for, from I, the Jailor, baseless accusations rise, lashing, fast, acidic wind that primes the rhymes I tongue within. Never one to coat my words too thin, too dry, too weak, it seems (by definition) I resist to drown (at best) or leak, while anchored here, existing, in unblinking frozen speech, but the accidental draining of my purpose-tended bed of prose, is waiting hand on foot with sweetened suicidal pensive throes, as I, with mocking rows and rows of written doubt, release, in lines, my stomach churning through and out demands to hasten one true last and final shout, so, this filtered care that stains my lungs with ghostly stare and soaks my throat as vomitous as stinging air that leaves me rendered, flailed and flared and wounded, brooding, undeclared – through THIS the words escape, an icing on the freedom cake all cherry-topped, and cut, and baked: a timeless meal to share without the food to waste, the friend to taste, the key to exit, smitten, from this solitary mind-induced persisting empty prison space.
© Tamara Natividad pisceanesque.com Written 22 August, 2015 -
#poetry#doubt#writing#isolation#prison#expression
pisceanesque
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pisceanesque
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 1:04 AM UTC
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