sharing-my-poetry-and-stuff

[sharing-my-poetry-and-stuff]

My ears hurt

My eyes hurt

My ears hurt

My eyes hurt

What am I supposed to do

What am I supposed to say

What am I supposed to do

What am I supposed to say

I scream until my voice goes raw

I cry until my eyes go dry

I pound the walls with my fists until my hands break

I wash the floors of my head until I can’t think anymore.

Everything hurts so badly,

And despite my efforts,

Despite my voice dying and my hands breaking,

Nobody ever hears the one thing I have to say.

[sharing-my-poetry-and-stuff]

I reach into the pit of light

Burning my retinas as fire licks my fingers.

I flinch back, a small bowl of gold in my palm

And I forge a fortune for others with my singed hand.

Am I human, with my burnt flesh and destroyed eyes?

Has my hand reached too far into my little pit of fortune,

Has my hand become too unrecognizable to be mine?

Complete objectivity means giving up your humanity to help others be more human than before,

And if that means I can help a few more people live easy,

Then I’ll give up my humanity without hesitation.

I’ll become a statue atop a hill,

So that others can finally be free from their stone prisons

Because if I know anything,

It’s that being frozen as a blank representation of facts can feel like a million long needles

All piercing through your heart and your skull

Breaching the one barrier meant to keep you human.

My hand dips into my little gold mine once again

And I hesitate as my fingertips begin to feel numb.

My bowl has been replenished for the thousandth time

And I can pour gold down on my little clay sculptures

Their laughs echoing from the walls of my head

As they jump and splash in puddles of poison.

[sharing-my-poetry-and-stuff]

I miss something I’ve never had

My heart aches for pains that don’t exist

Everything feels like it’s collapsing on nothing

My eyes water for people who aren’t real.

Do my tears rain like the drops from other’s eyes?

Do my legs break in the same way the bones of others crumble?

Do my eyes explode with the same flood that other’s do?

Does my rotting corpse decompose like the thousands of other graves show?

If not, my tears are being pushed out like worms from the flooded ground.

If not, my nerves are crippled in an irreparable way.

If not, I’ve blinded myself with the sun in my head.

If not, I’m not dead.

I’m pretending to be my own nemesis

Seething with rage and disgust

Drawing the eyes of other to and on a piece of thin paper

Which shows right through to my red, beating, iridescent heart.