Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
I can't stop thinking so loudly and being vulnerable tonight.
I can't get these worship songs out of my head and
I can't figure out why they make me want to cry.
I'm wondering why,
Since "holy" and "wholly" make the same sound,
They didn't use the former.
I can't stop being anxious and wanting and
Wishing I could believe in God,
And cringing over my childish range of reasons for that.
I can't stop thinking about all of Us ending up in the same "place",
And whether that should be happy or sad,
And how it isn't really a place at all.
I can't stop thinking about the idea that
I'm slowly becoming someone I've hated as much as I've loved,
And the parts I'm becoming are definitely the hated ones.
I can't get it out of my head,
The fact that even though manslaughter is an accident,
Somebody still ends up dead,
And how Cause and Effect means that
Everything is someone's fault,
And lots of faults are mine.
I can't stop thinking about how
"Sorry" and "sorrow" are linked.
I don't know if this is even a poem.
 Sep 2013 Suhaib Tariq
Sid
Of the five senses, touch was the first to go
When the rot set in.
Necrotic from disinterest; disused and numb,
A disconnected *****, a colony of one.
.
Then sound; your messages left unheard.
Just the tap tap tap of some manic mind.
No pause...just repeat; the eternal rewind.
Sleep starved, all words stick frozen in time.
.
For leading me into temptation; my gluttonous sins,
Taste and smell succumbed, then withered and died.
Staunch as a deacon, control finally mine.
The harvest ignored, bloated  on the vine.
.
Only sight eludes my metal fatigue.
The mirror much stronger, it haunts and it taunts.
Its warped funhouse images all I can see.
The bully I made...this cruel double of me.
When I flitted with the fall
I could feel the cool imprint of fingers,
The pounding of veins, Adam's fright,
Twisted, in the effulgence of the night.

My axis span by this faint touch of hand
And I dreamt of some respite
In spring's ethereal step
To blink beyond this cusp of night.

I fled; too fast to grasp — that I was broken,
For ash cities and burnt leaves,
Cool waves and barren trees.
This — a token, to the months I left unspoken.

— The End —