I drink nectar from flowers,
wings flutter fast, a hummingbird
preying among the vultures,
outweighed, though, they cannot
begin to compare to my ambition.
Determination a fuel for a fight
that I will drop my bundle for,
if it means your immunity
is guaranteed.
Sucked into the void before,
But nothing like the dissonance I’ve found
In the chamber of a hollow skull.
Borrowed the mind of a gardener
just for the solace following
the thorns amongst the flowerbeds;
A means of creation;
To splatter dye on the thoughts
for which I was never the artist,
but ever so desperately wanted to be.
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I’m crushing pills between rotted teeth,
gums bleeding from the stems of roses,
Countering the stench of self-infliction;
Puckered lips from lemon drops,
Its sour breath fogs the windows
as I ride along with impulsive behaviors;
I hopped this train to madness,
I will take the ride until I am discovered,
and thrown in the snow
atop this mountain I rolled myself into.
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Sometimes it’s not about me;
It is about the need to feel secure as young;
To live without the noise that deafened fragile ears;
It is about striving for comfort in the innocence
That was ripped from my hands
when I was too small to reach for it back.
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These words no longer feel as though they belong to me.
I used to hold them in the palm of my hand, offering a full view to the crowd.
There used to be eagerness in my voice
as I laid out the hand I’d dealt;
A cheat to the rules of the game;
I enforced a personal ban
and offered my position to one who protests none
to a game twisted in favor of the one in control.
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Embracing the feeling of the devil’s fingertips
tracing a homicidal outline on my sensitive skin,
singing the flesh off the bone;
A guttural noise escapes
the bottom of my throat,
I welcome the pain;
find pleasure in the torture, even.
No questions or doubt;
They say home is where you belong,
and I have come prepared with luggage.
Expectant of the torment
I’ve been sentenced;
Warnings are unnecessary;
a precaution in the contract from the King.
This is where I’m destined to fall.
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I do not live within my own skin when I read;
Reality is naught;
my perception warped from start to finish;
I am no longer I.
I, is an experience outside of my own
And once I’ve become;
I, is the story.
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Sweat lingers a while,
seeping through rumpled sheets
to remind you that you can still feel-
Fingers lingered longer than a butterfly
can flap its wings without falling tired;
A soft buzz, mistaken for the hummingbird;
an aggressive display of the effect of the sound
from the voice of a goddess wrapped in silk-
An airy whisper against your ears,
honey flows down your spine,
and you feel as though this is..
This is the gratification in the mind,
satisfaction to a body that responds
to the tickle of these melodies.
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Before I got lost searching for solidarity;
Every part of my being was in danger
of becoming a calculated response.
There was a never-ending fear of the metaphors
Breaking free from the caverns in my brain,
and being publicized to the world for relatability.
Instead of storing these writings of spiraling madness,
I let it flow wirelessly to whomever would bear the burden;
Regret is a toxin I’ve since become addicted,
feeding off the thoughts, no longer giving chance
to the voiceless;
And never did I think silence would ever be so comforting.
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Crushed by the weight of blame,
gravity becomes an enemy;
Guilt seeps through the cracks of torture;
Confusion of the wrongfully accused.
Tried and failed;
The jury too clueless to rule in favor.
A form of torture, this becomes,
questions now allegations
creating a fire that burns from the inside out.
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Marysa Writes 