#psychosocial
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.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 7:11 PM UTC
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.
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC