Tuesday, December 20, 2011

My Own Regrets

Is it too late to take it back?
Dripping blood from mangled flesh
Hanging upside down
Deep, solid puddles of the blackest red
Is it too late to take it back?
Your wrists in mine, broken with a twist
Crackled screams as your ribs caved in
The blackened bruises already showing
Is it too late to take it back?
Flesh singed with a flick of a flame
Putrid smells of rotting ash
Drifting pieces, melting off, disintegrating
It’s too late to take it back.

Your body’s cold, numb to my touch
It shows the years of my own regret
Hanging upside down, tied up and beaten
Throat split, hanging open in useless flaps
The flames lick upwards, breaking everything
The horror and nightmare of every sound
Tormented screams echo inside me
I grind my fingertips into my own flesh
It’s too late, much too late
But I’m still sorry just the same.


Sometimes it feels like I'm flailing, falling, looking for a place to grab hold.  The endless air drifting above and below me.  It's not a free fall, no, much slower.  Much less fun.
Though every once and awhile, the words form around me and start to make sense.  Even if the poetry doesn't come out right, it makes my brain settle.  The ground comes back underneath my feet and I begin to climb again.  No one is hurt, no one suffered.  The feeling that pulsated through my brain is now on paper, some of the darkest or lightest words I may have ever written sprawled before me.  Is it worth it to display myself so publicly?  Will they get what I'm originally speaking of?  Or will some English teacher twenty years from now stumble across my work and teach it as a metaphor of something that is so far off base, so far removed from the original point?

Artwork stuns me, sometimes.  Baffles me and makes me feel so small and huge at the same time.  The overwhelming feeling is also underwhelming - the world is at my fingertips, but I'm floating hundreds of miles away.  May the window to my soul make someone else reflect on their own, may the opening of my words make someone's pulse resonate with mine.

This is me.  This is not me.

It's all very existential.  And that's my mood:  Existential.

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