Wednesday, 4 November 2009

Breaking, I reach for the poem.

I thought I had a break.
A break in the madness,
but now the break is somewhere else.

Crushing bleak love
hammers inwards.

The desperate black
months long been so threatening
the hand wavering and hovering
falls again.

A hand punches
a hole in my chest
back again. The last time it was here
it never really healed.

The face that soothed me
turns no other cheek
turns no cheek whatsoever
just turns away.

Someone else will get what I wanted
again. What I loved
what I needed.
What I thought, for a I moment, I had.
Or so she told me.

Mountains rise and fall
but mine just keeps on keeps on rising up
and I havent got the legs
or the heart
to keep the climb.

One heart healed the other hurt
and now they both burn as new as a baby
feverish and fatal,
damning heart hurt.

The desperate, crushing black
the illness in me
learning me and thrilling
ripe on my shoulders, rippling as it runs across
and thrums through my brain.

The illness in me
that is me as I was born and bleed
wants to kill me soon.
The illness that destroys me moves
and pushes all away soon.

The black belief has no reprive
and no relief.
Not so as I breathe I do it freely from’t.
Damning black.

So black it has no name.
So full it has no mass, no weight.
So wrong it knows no right.
So swollen, cruel and crushing,
all in a moment and every
one of them.

Smothers me in all it's hell
and laughs at me.

So long as I remember me
I remember it too.
Days and nights and shame
and frights.
Always living.

The illness in me hates me
and I hate it back, with all the hate I feel for me
and more.
All the fuel they give to me
the words and wounds
I use to hate it.

The black wont leave when I bleed
and the black wont leave when I scream
and the black wont leave when I cry.
The black leaves
when I leave.

And it wants to leave as much as I do.

Hate me and I’ll hate me too
hate the blackness and brightness that I wish for
that slips away and runs
like the light from the light.

Fix me
and I’ll be perfect.

I've got the makings of a wonder in me,
the mind works too much
the body works not enough
because it's all broken.

Fix me
and I’ll be perfect.

Fix me
and the black leaves and it’ll just be me.
As I want to be,
As I dream to be.

Swallowing me and thorns in the back of my hands,
splinter and spit me out
slashed and scorned and sleepless.
Laughter in the black.

You didnt see the hell in me
but now you do.

Now you do.

1 comment:

  1. A powerful piece of writing. Although the average won't see the meaning behind the content, the emotion behind it is strong. We can see what you're feeling at the time. I like your writing. Keep it up and collect it. You never know, you might be able to do something with it sometime.

    Without Motive