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
Copyright © James Kelley | Year Posted 2018
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