Writing Ghosts

Sometimes I can’t decide whether or not these words are saving me, or if I’m wasting my time - circling around the same clogged drain. Damning myself with the filth of what I’m trying so desperately to rid myself of. I finish a line- one beautiful, concise moment of pure perspective- and I feel cleansed. But, then the tears pool around the spent shells at the bottom of my escape, and the bullets are re-manufactured. And I’m left with a hand full of cartridges; With my own metaphors pointing right back at me. Telling me that I’m just as superficial as the wounds I’ve emblazoned on pages that I vainly expect to become some sort of idiosyncratic scripture. A living testament to my own journey- that will lead to... Well, somewhere else. Hopefully. But, I continue on. Burying myself in catharsis. Begging for connection. However finite, and temporary. Swelling at the thought of becoming more than what I am. But, I’ll never make it down- through that drain. Into any sort of calm. Normalcy. I’m soaking wet and polluted. Screaming the words of better men; Hanging on to the tile, the best I can as the showering storm of crazed sentiment attacks my flesh. Growing hotter. No matter how long I grit my teeth and beseech the acoustics of my cage. It still sounds the same. My voice carries, but I don’t have the tongue. I’ll always be, the static in the next room. The faint buzz that someone may hear, and think for a moment- that they heard something beautiful. But, then I’ll fade. Running past their body as a gentle gust of delusion. And they’ll turn their head back to their friends. And tell no stories of what they felt. -James Kelley 2018