Skip to main content

Burn Everything



Here I am, releasing the tension of my firm grip.
I leave my little, lifeless deities in jealous hands, the creative hands that made me.
My ache belongs on the altar along with these sacrifices.
Why do I weep when I lie down my treasures and crowns?
Take them! I don’t want such to selfishly return.
These craved idols are dead, worthless, and my enemies.

Stubborn child, you cannot end these riches with this violent fire while you embrace them with your rebellious heart.

Burn the fragments that remain, make them ash…
less than ash, make them a barren womb.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Glorious Grey

 Glorious grey with your thematic expectations and sudden revelations. Many depend on your bland expression, hoping for a hidden salvation. Are you a subtle manipulator or a passive observer? Your color may not be color, making your theme perplexing. Glorious grey don't pollute the clear water. We find you in ash, rain clouds, and cement. Calling you neutral may not be correct.

Shy Suicide

Disclaimer: This poem was inspired by someone else's struggle with suicide. Don't worry I am not suicidal. Suicide, why do you hide beneath my white skin? Suicide, why do use my fake smile for your sin? Suicide, why do you keep your cover until the rope is tight, the trigger is pulled, the pills are swallowed, the wrists slit? A black phantom behind my face. A dark word behind my lips. A night in my day. Suicide, why do you ensnare all my companions? They didn’t know. They didn’t see. They didn’t recognize who had overtaken me. You left a message on paper; they read in disbelief. Suicide, you are shy, and yet you have the audacity to kill me.

Return

A return to the pen on paper. Ink from the soul splurged on a white sheet. Will you consume my smorgasbord of spelling and reprieve? An art that dies will resurrect a need for transparency. Return to poetry. The ache to master the language of the babbling baby. The need to communicate as an adult. Shakespeare expectations meet cliche. I am not a poet, but I write as I grieve.