Short Poem Calling Upon the End
Time doesn't fix anything. It's all inescapable and impossible to stop. My brain is in a murky soup of lithium and whatever the hell else they have me on now. At night it makes me lightheaded and dizzy, I'm starting to struggle to see straight. During the day it makes me feel nauseous and nonexistent, flickering through an invisible and painful schism in reality. My mind is elsewhere, my creativity is gone, I'm trying to hold on to something here but it all goes away. I don't know what I'm saying anymore, here's a new poem.
Let This Be the End
What is this thing
That is thinking of me?
What is this thing
That is creeping from within my bed
And making crimson fountains
From my limbs?
What is this,
Swelling wildly
In the maelstrom of my gut?
Engorging my veins
And growing out from my chest
Like anemic opium fields
With weeping decapitations
Weighing down the spindly, blackened stems.
What is this voice
Drowning me under
Smouldering waterfalls of poisoned lavender
And floating cadavers
Perfumed with patchouli?
What is this swirling sadness?
Annihilating every last step I take
Overtaking the circumradius dawn
With the sickness of immobility,
Self-starvation,
Nauseating odes to lithium,
Entrapment within enigmas of great machinery
Powered through oceans of bile
And illegible prescription pads.
What is this…
That is burying your sallow, lightless face,
Burning up your sinking, naked body
Transmitting, enfolded in gashes,
Fading away
Beyond my frenzied hysterical grasp?
What is this
Droning disease of limping existence
That is causing you to disappear?
Your voice no longer makes a sound
Your form no longer holds any shape
Your smile withered and dropped
To the windswept cemetery dirt
Tooth by disintegrating tooth,
You no longer run ephemeral
And toxicological
Through the desecrated caverns,
Tenebrous chambers of disillusionment
You left dug into my skull.
What is this temporal force,
Pinning my memories to the wall?
What is this that is painting my flesh,
And forcing stigmatas
Leaving me bloodlet and intoxicated
Against my true love’s dead ruins?
Your imploding visage follows,
Cracking my head back 90 degrees,
Canines pulled and filed,
Gums stuffed with injectors and speaker wire,
Synapses interlocked,
Irrevocably coiled around your carnival of disorders,
Chemical rain and dead leaves
Fill my blackened, lump-covered lungs
Like storm clouds careening
Through my fragile plaster mold,
Unseen and unfinished
Operated by an inescapable desire
For love and self-destruction,
What am I now?
What is this thing,
This consuming, silent feeling,
An uncontrollable procession of carnal madness
Your name shredding in the wind,
That is keeping your influence
To forever dwell and consume me?
With my meager, abandoned existence
Under the shifting shadows
And the army of dead butterflies
Flitting from your tiny, distended fingers,
[I miss your blood],
I call upon this incorporeal nothing
To keep you tragically close.
Even after you unfairly succumb
To the decaying voids of memories,
I’ll still hold on to whatever I can of you.
What is this?
That is forcing my hand,
That is making me want to call out
To the one who severed me from my world,
To rip open my keloids
Pluck out each of my eyes
And rend my infinitesimal morsel of a heart
For you to come back to me.
Come to me
And
Slash my wrists.
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