Andrew Delapruch | + Follow Poet |
Free verse | + Fav Poem | Comment | Email | Print |

The Wall Screamer

what brought him/her to this point
no one will remember, since there’s 
nobody to witness & nobody to find
her/him if s/he takes it as far as s/he
can---still, the walls are closing in &
the rain outside doesn’t seem to be
letting up, slamming louder against 
the windowpane (like it’s on some
kind of mission to outwit her/him, 
silence her/him & in doing so, pound
pound pound that final nail into his/her
coffin created by the loneliness left
when all her/his friends washed away
like the sands on the beach’s edge).

the man in the band s/he’d been 
listening to, prior to the turn of events
where the screaming inside the skull
started to get louder than all the rest of
his/her thoughts combined, he took the
road less traveled, he pumped his veins
full of mexican mud, the black eagle, the
brown rhine, the sugar of the same
color---and misery takes a step like an
ant on a razor’s edge, teetering, and 
like a piss drunk trying to keep in line
when stumbling in front of the cop,
down goes her/his head & all 
consciousness stops.

digging her/his nails into the walls &
raking them down like nails on the
chalkboard, but no one’s there to listen,
no one’s there to cringe & after all, if
ya can’t make somebody cringe, then
why ya rakin’ em’ down? 

but the fingers roll themselves up into
fists & the fists start making punches &
the hair is flailing & the scream is getting
louder & the neighbors would be 
retaliating, if there were any to retaliate &
“the expiration date is coming,” “the 
expiration date is coming” (s/he keeps
telling her/himself that the expiration 
date is coming), but who’s counting?

whilst some count their days with 
coffee spoons & notches on the wall 
near the door to show how tall their kids
are getting, some watch them burn away
with bleeding fingers, fists, torn hair &
endless, endless, itching.

Copyright © Andrew Delapruch | Year Posted 2012

Please Login to post a comment