Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Matterhorn May 2019
An onomatopoeia
From another time,
And yet metastasized into this age
Of silent computation—
Faster than thought.
Seamless auditory stimulation
Many cannot go without a soundtrack
In which to willfully drown.

Another ubiquitous day dawns;
The moon falls and the sun rises
And the bright little creature
Emerges from the darkness
To end the oblivion,
To replace,
To put an end to the silent pain.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
  Apr 2019 Matterhorn
Something within is festering
A mighty storm of rage
Swirling, twirling
Making me ill
It fills me with an
Unending angst
I think I know where it's from
But I have no idea
How to rid myself of it
If I am honest
It's made a home within me
I nurture it with darkness
Feeding it the parts of myself
I don't want others to see
We have a sort of agreement, now
In return for keeping it alive
It reminds me that I am too
It makes my heart race with passion
It makes me dizzy with ideas
That I couldn't possibly act out
I'm sure it's dangerous
But now we're symbiotic
And it's convincing me
I can't live without it
I know it's parasitic, but sometimes you just don't want to resist.
  Apr 2019 Matterhorn
I was dying
Losing my mind
Killing my body
And it lasted so long
I forgot how to be alive

I spent so much time
In that awful place
I made it my home
I hated it, but it was mine
Until I escaped

From a surge of bravery
I got out
And everything got
So much better
Way too quickly

But then it started to fade
The excitement wore away
I started to remember
What dying felt like
And I needed to mourn

So here I am
In this place in between
Not dying anymore
But not euphoric either
I am just here

I don't know how to mourn
When no one else can see
That I'm hurting
Because I'm not dying
I'm fine, but not quite

Haunted by memories
Of what I was
I wander through these days
Wishing I could escape
This place in between
But in a way, I like this place I've found. I now know, though, that I can make a home for myself in the worst of places. I just don't know what this is.
Matterhorn Apr 2019
Doggy paddle isn't swimming,
It's "active drowning."
The little pieces of information
Learned in the conference room of a YMCA,
Preparation to carry a red tube
And sit in a chair, observing;
To preside over age extremes
Swimming to and fro.

I sit in my chair
Carefully keeping track
As people come in and out of the room.
Someone comes up to me;
I stand up, shake their hand,
And maintain eye contact just as I was taught.
They walk away, leaving me to sink
Deeper and deeper into this chair.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Matterhorn Apr 2019
It's been twenty minutes
And I haven't seen his eyes.
He blew his nose twice,
Sneezed once.
One time,
I saw him eat—
That was days ago, though.
His fingers tip-tap
On the click-clacking keys,
Hands moving faster
Than the greatest gunfighter.
He would never have
The patience or desire
To duel me, however.
I can't decide which I want:
To smash his face into the keyboard
Or to wrap him in fraternal embrace
Until he remembers he is human;
So I just sit motionless on the couch,
Guiltier than he.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Next page