To a Closed Mind
Here I am: a product of coffee shop
bricks and apparition footsteps-freakishly
paradoxical, hungrily swallowing placebos
disguised as Penicillin.
I harbor words deep into my hingeless ribcage
keep their tangled veins behind my
lovestained, hatchet hacked Heart;
They cannot be silenced.
Who needs to know them anyways?
They are brittle cattle skulls left in
desert sun, elderly faces stare
back at me, cradled in my eye sockets where
they should not belong.
Puppetry: I am a marionette on semicolon strings
curled around their blithe and bony fingers
which stroke the dimensions of my brain with pseudo-malice,
fingernails dug into white matter,
the right hemisphere's wounded meat. A ghost of past;
inkstains still dripping like oil off
severed whale bones hung to dry.
My sickly verses maintain their steady cancer.
Seeds I've consumed in hopes of daisies
made me a deafmute Persephone, whom
devours youth like Heroin. Unashamed.
"To A Closed Mind"
Jenna-Nichole Conrad
Wordsmith
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