Journal No. 3

A piece in a series of journals, my mind poured out on paper.

Journal #3

A poem by Alejandro Manuel Espinoza

 

I grow weary; I can’t distinguish whether it’s just the time of day

Or the fatigue of my brain.

 

Must I witness the plastic that is human flesh

Glorified in its supposed sanctioned lifestyle?

 

Surely beauty doesn’t cluster.

 

How do I find myself here

In this seat

Eating in this restaurant

Surrounded by noise

Just white noise

Chatter

 

I’m afraid I’ll shatter into a million glass fragments and become dangerous.

 

I’ll hold my head in frustration,

Strictly because I find myself in this clouded and dismal state

Of mind.

On different paths my desire begins to waver

 

I’ll eclipse…

 

I apologize that all of my serotonin shifts like the platelets in the soil.

My being desires the warmth of nothing but a mirrored infinity of

Curving necks

And perfect plastic, and such is gorgeous plastic, everything PVC and smooth.

 

I’ll find this desired beauty repulsive if I let time ebb at my

Feet for enough eons

I resent the image of a thousand used corpses groveling at my insatiable feet.

 

I suppose content would have warm arms, warm poison arms.  

 

Author's Note

A piece in a series of journals.