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Matt Price Poem
Recumbent, crippled: a conscious corpse
Life calling for me to follow
Mentality, it warps
Why does my skull feel hollow?
As I wait for the shadows to fall down, to swallow
Emotions exhaust; they yawn, they sleep
I wonder why I'm awake
Why aren't I comatose counting sheep?
Or swimming in some chocolate lake?
What must I do- for God sake?
The black weighs heavy; unyielding, dense
Two jigsaw pieces left fitting
Hair strands react to such alien sixth sense
Perpendicular; lascivious in their sitting
Buried skin is forsaken; solitary, unwitting
Ladders of monotony, the itch to climb
But I'm yet to grapple a rung
Whispers of breathing chant and chime
Whistling from each glass lung
Will my reality sing unsung?
The dark devours me; surreptitious, slow
My body of waning evanescence
When will this serotonin begin to flow?
My prison of subtle quiescence
Paralysed by every cell of my essence
Like Mephistopheles, only I serve a devil within
Post mortem, my thoughts painstakingly dissected
Wounds of the past are tough like pigskin
Restrained to relive still affected
I wonder if they could be ejected
As the darkness lifts no weight has shifted
The day pours into the night
It's not as though I am God gifted
As I am still one with such bastard blight
How am I supposed to stand up and fight...?
Recumbent, can't move: a conscious corpse
Life now screaming for me to follow
Mentality; it warps
Why does my skull still feel hollow?
As I will for the shadows to fall down, to swallow
Copyright © Matt Price | Year Posted 2023
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Details |
Matt Price Poem
My crimson scribbles; there is no meaning, there is no feeling, and there will be no healing, not today at least…
Horizontal, never vertical for some reason. I cannot explain, though reasoning is out of my control: deadly even, hopefully. Perhaps there is an ease to holding the handle of serrated metal, of ragged glass or the like?
The pain Is paradoxical; the smarting, endorphin rush of anesthesia.
The trickling red hurts more than the gash; it feels cold and lifeless and not mine. Like a scrawling ladder to the skies. Climbing out from hell; heaven is out of reach, it always has been, always will be.
Skin scrawled with crimson doodles like a child drawing with crayons churning out thoughts onto paper into only waste. Watching mesmerized a river splitting into streams, splitting into tributaries, like the pulsing veins underneath; the source of the vehement flow. There is not enough to reach a sea, not so much as a puddle; maybe next time?
A back door out of life- the sharp key turns in the biological lock, no emotions seem concerned, no tears are bothered.
Thoughts atrophied, nothing. The door might as well be open… Must hide my angry looking smiles smirking at my paroxysm, my relief, my failed attempt at experiencing what it might feel like to live in human skin- if just for an hour. Sympathy is not what I crave, but deliverance? Quite possibly…
They won’t stop laughing at me, they won’t stop dribbling: not for some time. Itchy fingers are frenzied to pick; eventually they leave alone, the scab has sewn the cellular fabric closed. They have found another interest, their sadistic addiction..
The crimson scribbles turn sallow: frozen in time, their derision everlasting. Bastards have had the last laugh
My white scribbles; there is some meaning, there is some feeling, and there will be some healing, today at least…
Copyright © Matt Price | Year Posted 2023
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