"sludges" poems
It isn't sadness;
that is the biggest misconception.
People treat it like an emotion infecting a blue day,
labeling slightly soaked cheeks as this ailment of the mind.
The term is cracked like a whip in stinging insult:
weak, powerless, loser, outcast.
It is feeling a lack of feeling,
where one exists in a mental state of wanting to be anything but lethargic
yet finding nothing worthwhile inside
with which to take action:
no talent, no skill, no interest.
It is not only not believing one has any energy
but seeing nothing to which to give it,
in yourself, in others, in the world.
It is severe despondency and dejection,
consuming worlds like oozing, viscose magma
dribbling uncontrollably as burning ***** from the mountain's fiery mouth
burping filthily as is sludges onward.
It isn't sorrow, or misery, or despair.
It is inadequacy,
an ebb of interest in life,
with a sliver of interest to take it.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 12:05 AM UTC
Vile photos and sounds play on 'palace' walls;
mud in her fingernails form shapes of the night's sticky, grubby events-
a twisted, ****** Rorscharch-esque blot.
Knee-deep in grit and grime, soot on her feet,
she sludges on, puking night after night on assorted side-walks
with soaked, soily calves.
'Just pretty pictures' painted on a wall
show her a true reflection of her mind;
she seeks familiarity, hides/searches in them for herself.
In distorted jumbles, she looks for her kind.
The splayed stuff stutter and splutter
and stop and grind.
Insomnia and intoxication,
a victim of lack of inspiration-
life falls into a slow degradation.
Nothingness swallows all once more.
She thrusts against the shoddy shut doors
while the slimy sticky dross glues her shoes to gory floors.
-she trails off with a wince
at the hat man's scoff.
Foul filth fills the squalid air; and
sullied and smoky, sighing, she (s)tumbles
halfway to sleep.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
Razor-sharp fingernails scrape layers of flesh from eyelids
Splaying them eternally open
Can't unsee what's been seen
Can't unhear the sounds
Or unsmell the odor that rots in nostrils, infecting every rose
There's no stopping when they all stink the same
Can't undo, can't undo
Safety in bile where nightmares are birthed in reality,
In places that fester like the remnants of the lids that blinded
Bleach doesn't clean untruths
Fire doesn't burn hot enough to mask pain
Blisters seem like hope
Hope to heal
Hope to resemble something familiar
Peeling skin back with teeth
Wishing for them to bleed
When scalding tubfulls try to cleanse
the grime that sludges through a broken mind
Attached to a heart mindlessly lashed in the shame of
Love
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
Liberation
Is speeding down
Back roads
In the dark, windows down
In the pouring rain and
Sticking your hand out so that
Water droplets sting like pins and
Needles when they slam
Against your palm at 80 miles an hour.
Liberation
Is loving someone when it's wrong
And doing it anyway
Because 'god ****** I'm free'
And I'll love who I want even when
I have no right
Even when they're bound, gagged, tied
And held for ransom by a ring on
Their finger.
Liberation
Is getting on a plane to fly
Across the country on a whim
Because there may just be a chance
That that man I met once
Halfway across the world could
Fall in love with me when my feet get off
That plane.
Liberation is cracking open your head
And looking at your skull
And blood is life that sludges
Out of you and you wake up
A few days later realizing that
If you had died it wouldn't
Have made a difference, anyway.
And knowing that next time
You're dying you will
Make **** sure it
Matters.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 11:00 PM UTC
Silver sliver slices through
whites, glides.
Pop.
Yellow blood bleeds,
spills, sludges.
Salt sprinkled on the sparkling slate
meets tongue.
"Good mornings" sung.
—S.C., March 25, 2015
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC