Collection of Neuroses
Collection of Neuroses
To the dead I gave the waste of my mind and to the philosophers their terrible deaths,
To youth I offered poems in prose and endless neuroses braided into each other's breaths,
My stutters boil ferociously in the mouth that never learned to speak the truth out loud,
And the chance to be furious burned out before I could scream my whole bitterness to the crowd.
I banned love from entering like an inept dwarf guarding a rusted gate with pride,
I rummaged through your heart with philosopher's hands and a terrified mind inside,
The neuroses of youth sit on the shelf like a collection of dead butterflies in frames,
And the deaths of my thoughts keep piling up... uncountable... forgotten... without names.
The stutter is my only authentic language — ferocious and real and raw and true,
All other words are philosophical waste dressed up in a deaf parade costume and hue,
The chance for rage walked right past me like a night train that never stopped to stay,
And I remained on the platform... with my neuroses... and my heart... to rummage away.
To youth I stitched prose from poems and poems from prose without borders or end,
To the dead I sent the waste and to the philosophers the questions with no answers to lend,
Love stood at the door like a furious dwarf waiting to finally be let inside,
And I denied it entry... and I stayed alone... and empty... and blue-blood inside.
The collection of neuroses stretches across the shelves of my mind all the way to the ceiling,
The stutters boil in my bones and the philosophical deaths fill every window and every feeling,
Your heart rummaged through the chest found there an inept and furious and broken dwarf,
Me... the waste of the dead... the neurosis of youth... the stuttering philosopher... never a saint at all.
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