My Lifeless

The mind of an insane killer.

The calm. In this gun’s eerie smiting.

Waves have weaknesses too. Through the smoke, maniacal laughter. Only the waves are shifted, tilted towards the comprehensible, as if all of it makes sense.

Don’t look at the body. The little chuckles. It’s wrong; I know this, yet there they are.

It’s like a baked potato, open and steaming, ready for eating. Almost edible.

An appetite for the feral. It sickens me to see it as so.

The shotgun is melting in my hands. Sizzling and popping, my hands are red. It must go. As do I.

Weaknesses deter my living wave. I am not strong, I am not fearless, I am not happy. I am only a whizzing bullet, no anger, no grief, no thoughts, only the flight that brings me closer to the brilliant finish. Flesh that tastes like life, blood that springs forth in a fountain of meaning. Then the heart stops beating, and the break in the clouds -- that ray of pure sunlight that fills my soul with life -- becomes a baked potato lying pitifully on the pavement.

My lungs open and clouds become spiraling storms of darkness. Silence is intoxicating, and when I scream nothing is heard. All I want is emotion to find my soul, but I cannot find either.

My vision is double-barreled. One eye sees the world askew, the other seeks for the world in order, but both can only see the same. What are these shells that flash out of my conscious? Whoever I look at dies.

I need help, but I must run. Relentlessly flee those who want to destroy me. Prophecies of doom that cling to my clothes and weigh me down. I am tiring, but I cannot stop.

There are only two ways out of this madness. One that illuminates the silhouettes that follow me -- those that will throw me to the waste before annihilating me in front of everyone; or the other…

The sky is so blue, so pure, so… different from this madness. So devoid of anything. My mind feels nothing, but my hands can feel the destruction I leave. I can go there now. Forget anything happened. Shed every burden. Clear every mistake. Maybe I don’t need an emotion to find my true calling.

Author's Note

So it's not exactly a poem, just something different. Tell me what you think.

Reviews

[Matthew Kult]

Different is good. You took us in a weird path that most of us aren't accustom too. Keep up the good work

[Coyote Poetry]

I like the poem. Guns, bullets and some kind of history. Killing is madness. Crazy or not. I like the feel and emotion in this poem. When you swim in blood. You can get use to it. Would be a good lead for a good story. A outstanding poem.
Coyote