"sawbones" poems
Poets, like doctors, know the anatomy of suffering... tearing the paper with rusty carving knives...
We see scarlet scratches and eggplant colored bruises on every square inch of foolscap... we open scars with words... stainless steel scalpels which we never sanitize...
We perform open heart surgery with blunt instruments... We cauterize the wounds with coals of Fire...
We are civil war sawbones, removing the gangrenous leg to save the body... Carrying out our task with whiskey bottle anaesthesia.
So have a care... The Doctor Is In.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 5/30/2016
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 11:43 PM UTC
Wrapped in a pair of in-commensurable clothing
covered under this thick layers of condemn
frigid thoughts:
they crack ! zoom !
soon shalt it be
whacked ? cleaved ?
possessed by these insecurities..
these dilemmas..
grinning! grinding!
" you dont have sufficient defenses to avoid me "
" you dont have enough exit to ******* escape me "
just because i dont own some 3.5 inches hanging between my thighs
just to extend itself to some 6.5 inches
when it needs to be..
feeded ! shaked !
yes i have been concealed..
enslaved by this hypotrical rapid advanced state of moral decay
not to ever break the treaty..
the treaty ..they chocked me with
all long the genesis
when the sawbones miserably proclaimed " oh its a girl "
but never did she declared how many .
now:
trip over each
hold onto the other
between the mania and back
i am left with a zilch
hollow ! sunken !
nothing but these several Me's.
nothing but these fabricated decorum.
nothing..
but these everything :
I SHRUG!!
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 2:24 AM UTC