I hurt with the pleasure of carving knives
plunged into blood-lusting hands.
Standing in the storm of stab wounds
and searching for Gods dressed in human
to give me mental medicine
for wounds that they must trust me to see.
I am the glass-tongued mediator.
I am the vortex that turns worlds to ink-soaked scenery
and words to black noise.
They gurgle out blandishments like they're true! And to them,
I'm a glass door to better days;
they put their famished hands
onto my handle and tug for good luck.
I open and warble out what they want to hear;
a fortune teller who cries courtesies and fills her glass ball
with a concoction of
tears and liquid caution.
I don't want to lose them.
But I choke on their
distorted, glazed looks,
I stuff my throat with gauze,
my chest fills with blood
as they throw their clocks into the garbage
and raise me on glass pedestals
and drool praises as I cry for me
and for them and
Useless. I am useless.
Wasteful. I am wasteful.
Broken. I am and should be broken.
Did anyone ever realize? How would they
when I am so selfishly unselfish?
sorry if this doesn't make a lot of sense. it was very stream of consciousness.
edit: adjusted enjambment, minor changes to phrasing
Purpose in every
Word, comma, smile
Carry the weight
Of golden thrones
And I devour them
Each, every, all
I dream about
The heavy weight
Lessness you shine
— The End —