The body is a liar.
The body is a prison.
It has the early on-set signs of paranoia,
with cautious skin and structured organs.
It holds the heart hostage,
ribs casting shadows over each other.
Blood is a moat,
keeping life inside the throat.
One cut and you will see,
just how fragile life can be.
It was a grotesque party, so by definition it was wonderful.
And by wonderful I mean full of wonders, the likes of which the world cannot even begin to appreciate.
Acrobats writhed and waltzed with the cruel atmosphere, suspended by dark silks and iron rings. They moved to their own rhythm, their own sound.
Dancers, the acrobats’ kin, moved beneath them in a tangled mess of limbs, lips, wings, and cloth. They cavorted in such a disconcerting manner, creating a beautiful bastard of a time.
Music was relative, coarse ballads mingling with privileged sonnets and fast tempos giving way to lethargic pauses. The result was an irregular threat, a frightening pulse that kept the affair at large.
There was no distinguishable furniture to speak of, only a lone stone table set apart from the glaring revelry. It was laden with food that turned to ash in your mouth.
The only source of light came from a single bulb, amidst the acrobats; large enough to cast a muffled glow, but small enough to welcome darkness,
an old friend.
I feel too much.
I can’t tell the difference.
All I know is that they both hurt like hell.
I’m still dying,
just not dead.
but still alive somehow.
My organs are choking me, my skin is too layered.
I want to rip it off.
They talk to me.
I don’t listen, but I still hear.
Pure madness lives inside my bones,
inside my veins.
Nicotine for the soul,
nightmares for my brain.
Paint explodes inside my irises.
Screams echo from my fingers.
I’m an experiment,
[time of death; 6:33]
Hating yourself is an art.
It requires practice,
but no patience.
The only limit is our imagination,
how far it will go.
There is no friend,
Just what you have created,
a monster made of snow.
Writers are thieves in their own right,
taking eyes, lips, and hands for their own.
They steal beating hearts,
so their characters can long for the essence of another.
They pilfer garrulous lungs,
so their creations may breathe the words within them.
They abduct stubborn spines,
so their figures might find movement and heading.
A soul is the only thing they can’t pillage,
A soul is what they themselves create,
an entity that cannot be faked.
This culture, this society,
they claim to be the salvation.
The Saviors of imagination, the Defenders of the different.
This is a disproportion.
Creativity may be abundant,
but in education it is bereft.
They focus on plastic ideals:
Classics are stripped of bone and sinew,
their contents concealed into bare, boring flesh.
Writing itself is murdered,
poisoned by prompts and thesis statements.
All that made it beautiful,
scattered to the winds,
marred into a generic format.
A paradox withstands,
one that cannot be solved by sleight of hand.
Existence is fleeting,
even with my heart still beating.
I cannot live,
what with this ache in my chest.