a person in five phrases
i.
held in the vise of despair without visions of hope
nails sharpen into swords and the stomach sours
becoming a volcano of spite. yet i walk about normally
with the abnormality of insanity crying for dead dolls
washing their dirty faces to see in a clearer light.
but can Pepto-Bismol coat the sorrows
that already make me blush, that flushes wholeness
into the life i bear, to muster whatever laughter i can bundle
like a hyena after a kill?
ii.
i reach through the fog that sits at the center on my mind
and touch whatever of limbs limp toward the earth
stretching to touch a caring one somewhere in this universe
a prisoner shackled and manacled upon the torture floor
waiting for the CIA to enter and smash the dead soul of me
into some meaningful life so that questions arise.
they see not blood nor hear the stream of screams.
they bruise not humans with a name
but immune, beat those with answers that kill
some self more notable than i
some other more barbaric than they
they say.
iii.
the one-color world bothers me.
i look into the eyes of grey and see darkness.
all about are smiling faces with glued expressions
and i am frightened by the sincerity they bring.
the tenor of their conversations is noise
unhealthy at the end of all.
iv.
a humming in the atmosphere reminds me of a lost butterfly.
somewhere between a need for freedom and healing
the spir'tual and the mental fall apart.
it needs to return to the flow of life
unable to maintain position o'er the mythical sea.
attacked like children chasing a fleeing ball
it's a slab of flesh destined for abuse
to be chewed upon, then vomited into a trough.
it's how i feel, atrophied: gnawed and discarded.
what is the death in me? regurgitation?
an attempt to reclaim a life
before the surgeon arrives to apply the knife?
v.
i'd like to film the world with water and light
with clapping and exuberant laughs
but my limbs fall limp and my spirit faints
feeling lost among the lonely
fumbling in search of meaningful land.
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