Silhouetted feathers, dipped in Unfathomable pain, rain inside my room. And the monster under my bed has awoken again. Feeding on my mind and the emotions I emulate His cold, dead, hands wrapped around my brain I can hear his voice inside my head his wondering thoughts keep me cold like bed sheets
Sometimes I wonder If these walls could speak What would they say after catching wind of everything they've absorbed When I yelled my rage, distress, and disbelief at them
Sometimes I wonder, If this ceiling had eyes could it see Me in a bipolar state of mind as I write in this notebook my moments of sadness, malice, and agony
Sometimes I wonder If these walls were alive have I slowly been watching them die As I stabbed them a million times With my lingering thoughts
And if these walls could walk Would they walk away and leave me here In such a lonely world laying in my bed drowning in this shame Buried in bones As the skeletons inside my closet dance above my body, & soul in this rain made of nostalgic feathers And the monster under my bed has replaced the monster inside my head.
Oh Language, where hast thou hid thyself? Thy once-bright spires decline to dust. The calm, well-reasoned flow of wisdom a bygone memory. I’ll not trust these tween-to-twenty-something’s prattle; endless babble of self-absorption centered in pleasure-maximizing: narcissistic thought-abortion. Dude—they’re SO not app’ed for language used by dad ten years ago. I’m totally DONE with their, like, verbiage They’re all: Smartphone Teenage Show. It’s just, like, TALKING—without words in language ghettos; texting proud . . . Their lack of precision offends my brain— They ought to be ashamed (out loud).
Vygotsky’s vaunted Z.P.D, and Bakhtin’s heteroglossic crack along with Roland Barthe’s pet parrot Are SO like totally talking smack.