"electrodes" poems
A grey room with soft walls is waiting down the road.
Purple pills and quiet voices will ease my heavy load.
They'll place electrodes on my head to shock away the pain.
Then I'll sit drooling as I stare at the morning rain.
Maybe a friend will visit and stare with wide unblinking eyes.
They'll speak cautiously and try to fill me with empty lies.
Even with my drug addled mind will see through their mask.
There are questions visible on their tongue they refuse to ask.
The stern nurses in their funny hats take us out in the sun.
The sudden warmth and bright light jolt us like a firing gun.
We must stay in line and only speak when we're spoken to.
When one is barely conscious that's an easy thing to do.
I'm back in my locked room starting to fade off to sleep.
I wonder if God can hear my prayers under layers so deep
Please come and save your creation from this destiny.
Sprinkle your magical dust and set this tormented soul free.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 1:19 PM UTC
Ari,
Hold my hand like stars hold the sky,
Ari,
you make black space bright.
Ari,
Don't let go
Please.
Cause your valleys fill my ridges,
and as our fingerprints sync
we lie together alone.
So please,
don't let me go,
don't let the unknown go,
because five minutes ago,
we were strangers,
and now...
we are holding hands.
I can't believe we are just holding hands,
again,
eyes closed,
strokes stimulate electrodes,
heads who just want
hands to be hands,
rush with finger's innuendo
to images of stripping off clothes.
But it's not the right time.
Shoulders shrug goodbye.
And it's a bright day outside.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 5:09 PM UTC
*** 101
by Michael R. Burch
That day the late spring heat
steamed through the windows of a Crayola-yellow schoolbus
crawling its way up the backwards slopes
of Nowheresville, North Carolina ...
Where we sat exhausted
from the day’s skulldrudgery
and the unexpected waves of muggy,
summer-like humidity ...
Giggly first graders sat two abreast
behind senior high students
sprouting their first sparse beards,
their implausible bosoms, their stranger affections ...
The most unlikely coupling―
Lambert, 18, the only college prospect
on the varsity basketball team,
the proverbial talldarkhandsome
swashbuckling cocksman, grinning ...
Beside him, Wanda, 13,
bespectacled, in her primproper attire
and pigtails, staring up at him,
fawneyed, disbelieving ...
And as the bus filled with the improbable musk of her,
as she twitched impaled on his finger
like a dead frog jarred to life by electrodes,
I knew ...
that love is a forlorn enterprise,
that I would never understand it.
Keywords/Tags: first, love, *** lust, passion, desire, school, bus, foreplay, ********* odor, musk
Apr 27, 2020
Apr 27, 2020 at 4:29 AM UTC
Take away your knowledge, Doktor.
It doesn't butter me up.
You say my heart is sick unto.
You ought to have more respect!
you with the goo on the suction cup.
You with your wires and electrodes
fastened at my ankle and wrist,
******* up the biological breast.
You with your zigzag machine
playing like the stock market up and down.
Give me the Phi Beta key you always twirl
and I will make a gold crown for my molar.
I will take a slug if you please
and make myself a perfectly good appendix.
Give me a fingernail for an eyeglass.
The world was milky all along.
I will take an iron and press out
my slipped disk until it is flat.
But take away my mother's carcinoma
for I have only one cup of fetus tears.
Take away my father's cerebral hemorrhage
for I have only a jigger of blood in my hand.
Take away my sister's broken neck
for I have only my schoolroom ruler for a cure.
Is there such a device for my heart?
I have only a gimmick called magic fingers.
Let me dilate like a bad debt.
Here is a sponge. I can squeeze it myself.
O heart, tobacco red heart,
beat like a rock guitar.
I am at the ship's prow.
I am no longer the suicide
with her raft and paddle.
Herr Doktor! I'll no longer die
to spite you, you wallowing
seasick grounded man.
2k
The Queen of Absentia rises from royal
stool to watch the moon set sheathed
in broiling cloud as she skips whirling
adders that hiss in fat jagged coils, their
hollow blades jutting death in sprinkler
sprays of misting veils and her
head is hypethral; a Gaudi shipping
container soldered in reptile curves,
licked by arrowheads of falcate flame
as she rounds its laughing corners;
an adderaled lab rat, eyes black funnels
drinking electrodes pulsing crimson and
the stars are crackling in the pan as she
sees planets torn shrieking down Hell’s hungry
plughole as fallen Gods divide by zero
and the clock’s skittering claws scratch
prophecies of consequence of poorly
sewn seams, but she smiles like a risen
crocodile and says,
‘you’re just jealous cos the
voices only talk to me.’
And again she dives as unwanted
advice gibbers up out snapping drains,
and power points shoot sharp blue spears
lighting substrates of ancient horror, inchoate
but fattening before her eyes as she
sits, wrapped in ghosts, guarding her
ochre tea in its chalice of steaming bone,
trying to sell herself a ticket to
tomorrow’s sunrise, staring at thunderheads
bunching up satin over sodden ninjas sprouting
cardboard hair, slicing down legions of
roaring pearl as death hunts hollow-eyed below.
Her Majesty holds court, amid the percussion of
steel and plate, a matador to shadows
that clasp their hands and dance around, as
clouds hammer rain to the ground.
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
Live
inside the execution chamber
a stocky warden
poker-faced and middle-aged
begins
the medieval ritual
with words of cold indifference
addressed towards
Ted's emotionally dead
terrified head.
A warder
grim-faced
stands to one side
arms folded
as two others
begin to buckle
thick leather straps
around Bundy's ankles
wrists and chest
to the chair.
No cold condolences
the electrodes
on top of his head
a black mask
covering his face
until the signal is given
a raised arm
to the executioner
hooded in black
who pushes a lever.
Bundy's body arches
spasmodically convulses
tensely straining
paroxysms
the neck taut
head stretched back
blood oozing
from the nostrils
then slumps
and is pronounced dead.
The warders
remove the crown
and mask
unbuckle the straps
as the chamber empties
and the executioner
doffs the black hood
to reveal
appropriately
a beautiful woman.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
Every night in rem sleep my neuron signals ,
And brain waves to her heart,
And electrodes carry us to a moonlit secret forest.
A forest that echoes love to get more intimate.
The silver beam melting my Iove to her rose bud lips,
The stars are falling down closet to earth,
The trees alone were exquisite,
They tangled to divine.
I walk with my mid night fairy ,my lost soulmate ,
I dive in her eyes and treasure my endless passion .
She Whisper with a warm breathe saying my Love, I breath in ,
And my heart keeps beating with her eternal love
I feel to canvas her with all sheds, and live in ,
Coz I am the God's lonely man .....
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 6:09 PM UTC
leaked
violet pulse
rapid electrodes
vapor
fail
electron fuse
tube light
ultra input
intensity
flicker
strain
power percent
breaker
visible heat
filament pins
ballast burn
shortwave
excited
electric
gas
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
sticky grease monkeys gathered around my magical wheels of strawberry puddles...stroking the pit of bones and mud i found the triangle lock that holds together fountains of the golden castles...into the gate i ride with gears made from electrodes and synapses ...breaking fast to avoid the ***** little princess and her rotten tiara...why do the princes gather in ******** blue and black...why do the mud men rain ***** on all the free horses...why do the horse gather under rainbows of supercharged mold...puffy ******* explode into orange fissure inside the dragons arch...under it i pass with the giant peaches of all the kings gone by...they told me to ride my bike into the realm of forever...they said go to where the girl is standing sad... in her mouth is lights of broken bulbs...reach into the glass pieces and find the rectangle and you should be ****** into the universes of white hawks and grabbing children...play with them before they melt into angry adults forgetful of infinite imagination...tell them to make hand puppets out of red cans...and grease the cylinders with organic stew not synthetic fibers and intestines of optical wires...tell them stop...tell them there are places inside where you can dream all day as long... as long as you light the night with organic candles of soft ******* of pulsing energy...and take with you all if they listen and let the others play in the cold winters ..let them bathe in dirt water...let them eat the ashes of rubber and iron...tell those who only want to play that they can sing all night but don't tell them what songs to sing...they will not know what to do and will just stay or go away...with the ones who listen... show them the path and give them names like happiness and joy...and make them take the path with you only until theirs is ready...once they go their way you can go to the shore of the love bear and shave his back and turn the fur into little bunnies with bubbling eyes of shining trust...if all goes like you wish the keep peddling and ride your bike into the hole in your brain...
Jan 17, 2010
Jan 17, 2010 at 5:25 AM UTC
Shine or shower, we bend forever
Bend to see if the path talks to us
Bend to earn a nickel with a foreign face
Oh! How it bleeds, to walk on the gravel
The stones are crushed to confess their stories
they could be frozen tears of
my colleagues and my fellow countrymen
Who tramped here before!
How it pains, to sleep on flour, which is not mine
Lack of family affection makes us half humans
It has been an infinite urge to
Fly away on the wings of breeze
Just to escape the scorching sun’s torturous smile
We extinguish the fire of anger
No fire, but the flames in the breast
Endure between ambition and desire.
We see light in soldering electrodes everyday
But can’t see the bright eyes of our children for ages
Oh how it torments, a faithful heart that’s broken
To avenge the sad tale of labourers on a foreign soil
For us who experience all the ravines of Life
Night returns with dark chocolates
We continue to lift and bend ourselves
With fragrant bosoms near our feet
Theme : We get to see many labourers working in the Middle East and East Asian countries like Singapore, Brunei etc. These workers, as construction labourers or as grass cutters, toil a lot on the road exposing themselves to Sun and shower. Most of them are from India, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka etc. It pains to see them working under very unfavourable conditions. This poem is an appreciation of their commitment to look after their family back home.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 10:16 AM UTC
"Faith can move Mountains."
I've read in some book.
Now mind over Melon
can be done with a look.
Hooked up by electrodes,
a test subject's brain
exploded a melon
and fried some plantains.
The Watermelon trick
sure excited the crowd.
The comedian, Gallagher,
truly was wowed
He's been in the hospital,
truly heartsick.
Physically unable
to keep doing his Schtick .
Soon, with his brain,
He'll resume his pursuit,
popping jokes while exploding
some innocent fruit.
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 7:08 AM UTC
His Grindr profile is a pictureless profile
He is 20 years old
5’ 10”
He is looking to experiment
This scientist
Questioning, questioning, questioning
I convince myself to volunteer for this experimental group
To be affected by the variable he is to control
I send him a ****
I drive to his house
And the scientist leads me to his laboratory
His room decorated with sports players and female swimsuit models
I sit on his bed, the examination table
He says he’s never done this before
Yet I know he’s still the one in control
He says he’s always been into ***** stuff as he caresses my knee
And I can’t help but take this all as a compliment
So I let my lips thank his
Holding his secret with gentle care between our faces
He is now my master
He’s rough
As if he’s battling a beast
He no longer speaks for the remainder of the experiment
He is silent
Silently observing my every move, my every expression, my every reaction
I am used to this
Years of ***** looks stabbing ****** into my skin
Feels bandaged in the arms of my master
I feel the history of gay men solidify in my throat
Centuries of experimenting on us, homosexuals
Has prepared me for this
I feel accepted
His lips
Like suction cup electrodes on my skin
His nails
like surgical scalpels digging into my flesh
His hands pinning down my wrists
Like binds to restrain my animalistic reflexes
The scientist
Dissecting every inch of my being
Transforming “making love” to “constructing lust”
Turning dehumanization into a beautiful art form
Elevating this gay man to “almost a person”
And I can’t help but feel thankful
The experiment is over
He sits there and calculates his results
He says we should do this again some time
And I can’t ******* help but take this straight boy scientist’s kink
As a compliment
As a medal, as an award
Made from masculine hands that once beat me up in the locker room
And I watch the monster creep back into the closet
And the scientist just stares
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 5:35 PM UTC
Christine sat
on the edge
of her bed
her white
dressing gown
wrapped about her
her hair unbrushed
she swung her legs
back and forth
like a child waiting
to play games
you sat
on the bed opposite
your borrowed
dressing gown
dark blue
you held tight
with your hands
as the nurses
had taken away
your belt and laces
in the locked ward
when I first had ECT
she said
they took me in that room
back there and laid me
on that black couch
and said it won’t hurt
it will help
she looked at you
her eyes focused
making sure
you were listening
she brushed hair
out of her face
it’s like being a ******
before ***
you don’t know
what to expect
she added
her voice quieter
she looked around
at the ward
others were elsewhere
or in their beds
or taking a shower
and that bit
when they put
the electrodes
each side of your head
and put that thing
to bite on
yes
you said
made me feel like
I was in a dentist’s chair
back as a kid
with the smell of gas
only there isn’t gas
no gas
she said interrupting
that’s right
just feels like it
she took a deep intake
of breath
you watched her
her fingers held
the dressing gown
to her neck
the ring on her finger
she wouldn’t remove
even if the guy
didn’t show
for the wedding
she’d keep the ring
stuck there
like waiting to die
you said
and then they give you
the injection in the hand
a little *****
and the wave of nothingness
sweeps over you
and you blank out
and it’s all dark
and empty
she nodded her head
her eyes still glued
to you
then you wake
with a headache
like a huge hangover
without the *****
she said
looking away from you
her profile adding
to her beauty
and it didn’t work for me
she added
as a nurse went by
carrying blankets
me neither
you said
just the dreaded numbness
and the busted head
she got off the bed
and walked to the window
and you followed
standing beside her
looking out
at the trees
and fields
covered in snow
a tractor across the way
with gulls and rooks
following behind
and she touched
your hand with hers
the blind
leading the blind.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 2:42 AM UTC
Electrodes to nodes
and nothing bodes well
electrickery and it trickles into me
revolting and jolting
and Frankensteinlike bolting me
to the bed.
The head
this head will no longer be as free
as the thought imagining in me
while hot electrotomoty
burns me to
anonymity
and it's a pity I can't be
a less condusive entity
but the powers that be seem to have it in for me
and I am strapped to non lucidity
in the name of all humanity
don't put a shilling in the meter
Later I meet myself
in a shell of who I used to be in a picture
painted hastily
on a background
which I cannot see
and what was once no longer is or was it ever and did I once was clever too or were the words electricked through the nodes that boded ill?
Will it stay or will it go
somewhere out there
do you know
or are you waiting for the leads that lead you to electric feeds?
Can someone bring me bread and water
call my Mother
call my daughter
or like the lamb led to the slaughter
will I bleed to death?
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 4:38 PM UTC
There’s always been something controlling me,
I knew, but I knew not what,
Something diverting and foiling me
Since the days that I lay in my cot,
I thought it was simply a parent thing
As they whispered their rules in my ear,
The things that were right and the things that were wrong
And the things I would most have to fear.
They sent me to school and the teachers, too,
Must have read from the very same book,
They always laid blame and they said it the same
And the cane lent a sting to their hook.
‘You’re coming to learn, not to think for yourself,
You’ll repeat everything that I say,
And maybe just some of these rules will stick
If you dwell on the rules every day!’
Then once in the world my employers unfurled
All the rules and the regs I would keep,
I didn’t last long, I’d seen them before
And told them they put me to sleep.
The government fined and unlicensed me
From a book that they said was the law,
The magistrates sat on a heap of these books
As I shrugged and I said, ‘What for?’
I sat in the jail for contempt of court,
Spent plenty of time in my cell,
The world was consumed with a million rules
Designed to consign you to hell.
I watched all the lawyers and prisoners, cops
As they danced to the rules of the cot,
And sensed they were puppets, and most of them fools
Who would baulk at the words, ‘I will not!’
They’d hate to be questioned, they thought they were right,
If you disagreed you were canned,
They’d lock you away for a hospital stay
There was no going back, it was planned.
You had to be made to agree with their way
So they clamped electrodes on your head,
Then slide up the volts, and it wasn’t their fault
If it happened you ended up dead.
They called it Electro-therapy
And said it was doing you good,
But the thoughts in my brain they were never the same
When I came out from under that hood,
I saw the strings jerking from shoulders and heads
In a vision you couldn’t conceive,
And there were the hands that were pulling their strings
When I called out, ‘I don’t believe!’
‘I’ve never believed and I’ll never believe,’
I called, and they all moved away,
A thunderous cracking of mortar and ceiling,
It all fell apart on that day.
The strings fell away from my shoulders and hands
And I knew I was finally free,
And then I called up to the Puppet Master,
‘You won’t be controlling me!’
People were falling all over the place
As he dropped all the strings from his hands,
The bearded Master could see the disaster,
‘You’ve ruined my world and my plans!’
He paused for a moment and then he was gone
Leaving people to blink in the light,
The rules were the rules of the Puppet Master
Now we can decide what is right!
David Lewis Paget
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 8:28 AM UTC
An unethical practice to fully comprehend my existence in
space and time,
I took the world hostage and prodded its inhabitants with
probes and electrodes
only to find myself
conducting self-lobotomies in front of the bathroom mirror;
Gazing through the eyes of McCrae,
I ****** my hands into
pristine soil,
tore up roots and
soldier bones, creating a
garden of chaos
only to find myself
amongst red petals and marrow
strewn across green vision fields,
but the larks still bravely singing fly!
I splattered ******* across
impressions of Monet and Renoir
only to find myself
dripping like
Dali,
screaming like
Munch,
is this what beauty looks like?!
I passed up a
hitch on a
Heart of Gold
only to find myself
in the mire of a
Brave New World,
kicking at the dirt that sent
electroconvulsive shocks
up my spine,
is that a headlight reflection in my Bell Jar?!
I looked down the barrel of my fingertip guns, still smoking and
listened to the hollow wind of my self-inflicted universal entropy...
run.
Through a wormhole,
into the forest of wisdom where I reviewed observational data of my
chaotic string theories,
there I found myself,
rejecting the null and
assembling a fire of new Hope using the
burrs and thistles burrowed under my skin,
scratching and clawing at unethical practice.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
In the unbroken smoke, where the cream on the coffee can choke
an unwary cat
that's where I'm at.
I didn't look for it,book it,get this life at cost,so **** it,
I never asked to be here,
the price I must pay is too high and I fear I will die.
The sanatorium,
humorously called a
gated community where
electrodes are placed on my brain,
is that normal or sane?
what kind of people are these?
I can walk as I talk with the trees in the garden that's known
as Gethsemane
where I feel all alone but know that nurses are tailing me.
The smoke drifts away
there'll be no shocking me today.
Napoleon comes by and he waves and says 'Hi'
I say,
'not yet'
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 5:25 AM UTC
**Electro
Encephalo
Graphy**
They
Attached
Twenty
Or
So
Electrodes
Onto
My
Skull
I
Sat
On
The
Couch
For
Complete
Two
&
Half
Hours
I
Started
Feeling
Sleepy
By
The
Time
It
Got
Over
And
The
Doc
Kept
Asking
Me
To
Stay
Awake
And
So
I
Did
But
My
Neck
Pained
And
My
Back
Ached
Having
Remained
In
An
Awkward
Position
On
The
*Testing
Couch*
It
Felt
Like
A
*Casting
Couch*
Smelling
The
Girls'
Scent
From
The
*Testing
Couch*
And
So
Was
It
**Electro
Encephalo
Graphy**
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 1:39 PM UTC
High and dry it’s all deserts and tumbleweeds with you.
But I’m a cat that likes to travel and move.
So I go the opposite way. Because stagnant dreams at high altitudes don’t suit me.
I’m a flat line realist with big aspirations, but I need to understand the game board.
So I hope there’s gas in the tank. Not for terrorist motives
Although I wouldn’t mind wide scale destruction
And my friends and I
We try to live like pirates.
We wish we could steal
But my mazda’s not a ship
And I’m not boarding port side.
Although to be perfectly honest
I feel that introspective ramblings
Aren’t going to save me.
When I ‘m fine with my self
It’s the flannel wearing 30 somethings
Raised trucks
Medium beer
Hats
Bro’s with community college degrees
The death of California
So My friends and I
Should drown in tar
Like dinosaurs .
Hypothesize our end
Our demise was overdue .
A few years ago I was cutting edge tongue flapping
Now I’m electrodes to spit older quips for lack luster
Gents.
I know the kinds h & m uniform, scarves in California heat, military grade boots.
This one’s name is Jeff and he slings dehydrated lines about charity like it will save his life of mediocrity and empty,empty,empty pockets
For the things he needs to do
To make people like him
Some where
Maybe india
Yes india
We’re friends that are just a 7 dollar donation away.
So leave me high and dry with your corner out eyes
Save yourself from the breakdown’s the x, y, z’s
Of predictable lines and same old stories
It’s the same thing with ***’ of varying size
So if I quench my thirst from leaky pipe dreams
Or water plants with the excess, it’s all the same.
Because a silver tongue and debatable morals is the selling point but we’re not vinyls
Value is measure in age.
And wisdom wasn’t the call your made.
I’m sick of cut throats in Sunday dresses
And thief’s in cheap yellow sunglasses
Life’s not a slope of a flat line or a mountain to be ascended or descended
-Kevin T.
Apr 5, 2011
Apr 5, 2011 at 5:02 PM UTC
lab, about the dissecting of frogs I sensed
something
what if aliens came and saw us as frogs
a delicacy
or an experiment?
I grew out of that in college, only to
relapse when on a trip to the zoo
this gorgeous girl wanted
me in the woods, and I saw all the squirrels and rabbits
winking , the moles poking heads out of holes
and her blouse undone,
I sweated , trembled , took her breast tenderly
in my hand
it felt like heaven,
when she touched me back
I thought about that dead frog
and how we stuck electrodes on his legs,
I twitched
I shouted
think that was the first time I danced,
in fact I know it was.
from there on out it was more ***
education with a hint of biology.
And we danced the night long with
no more thoughts of frogs legs twitching.
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 12:49 AM UTC
I own the burning heart
That you try to fix
With electrodes other
Than the ones broken
In my flesh by the blood
Of the shadow-makers
Who shared the same
Womb of poison
That carries its secrets
Of shame and indifference
Within the same thought
Which races and stabs
With each beat
On and on
Faster and faster
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 4:25 PM UTC
It hides in the spaces between
every adjective I spit out
like milk that’s gone bad,
patiently waiting
to lace its fingers around
the back of my neck
and pull me closer with
its newest allure
cigarette breath,
kiss me to death.
Nestled as a punchline,
after every minor inconvenience
like accidentally running out of gas
or driving past my old place
and knowing
someone else
lives there now.
Showing up
when least expected;
I find leftover bits of it,
stuck to me indefinitely,
like forgotten electrodes
glued to my body
I peel them off
one by one
but somehow
there’s always more.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 9:35 PM UTC
Not just a memory
But a stored moment in time that you savor
Not just a sound
But a wave of harmonious lyrics that tickles your eardrum
Not just a taste
But the flavor of many seasonings that bounces across your taste buds like thousands of pinballs
Not just a sight
But visual ecstasy that dilates the pupils and allows light to send blinding rays of optical bliss
Not just a feeling
But the pulsation of electrodes across the skin as it makes the thousands of hair follicles stand at attention
Take a moment to reflect and see that every day we are blessed with the gift of life...it's NOT JUST life, but it's the opportunity to hear new things, see new sights, taste new flavors, feel new feelings, and make brand new memories.
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 9:59 AM UTC
Merging minds through confluence of time
Streaming into vastness of space
Piling on the eons we climb
Subjective to a human race
Evolution is nearer to nothing plasmatic
As brain tissue melts loosely away
Finding transformative signs galactic
A robotic mechanical sway
Electrodes and microbes in fervent fusions
Find waves upon air and streams
Static electricity combusts allusions
Eyes disintegrate, fried by laser beams
No ointment to existence as we are lard
The oil for machines to profit
Toil long and toil hard
As progressive adaptation won’t stop it
For the gravity of this juncture upon us
Climatic epoch in measure
As ethical questions confront us
What gains from the yield of treasure?
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 11:30 AM UTC
in january he was gentle.
rested a soft hand on my neck -
it felt strange
but he said it was natural
and so i believed him.
and now in june it's a chokehold
a strange escalation that took months to notice
my body slowly being deprived of oxygen
turning blue
and lifeless
his strong fingers
leaving bruises on my pale skin
veins stand out
as i
scream on the couch
my back arched
like electrodes placed on my temples
shocking me back to life
i feel that strange,
wild,
raring,
open pain
course through me
for the first time in a year
Jun 21, 2017
Jun 21, 2017 at 2:54 AM UTC