Disordered Train

A poem on mental illness

When I removed their masks, I didn’t want to see their faces

I don’t want to do this anymore, the allegory of tomorrow is melancholy sorrow metaphorically, says the fists of mystery to its mistress, fed, ready to settle into a bed of flowers, into a coffin of gravel

A dominion of sin I’m living in, give into the pleasure at your leisure, pathetic evil, painted real

On death’s row a light show, in the darkness there is a cold home, bottomless hopeless, sodomized oceans

I don’t deserve to die anymore than you deserve to live

Slither in our grave, a shade in the ground of a burial mound, a dig site crown on disparities hounds, a soul unbound by the chains of hell, a rain fell down that erased all sound

I’m an able raincloud, always available

Waiting for inevitable obliteration

I don’t write throughout my life, writing is my life

Clouds are evil in the sky, a watchful eye

It’s not too late to create hatred, precipitation

Pronated earthquake acquainted proclamation Poseidon’s item

Hell is a hand me down, I inherit my meritless mistress, a whisper of the figureless, bigoted, egoless

I don’t want to hand myself to someone else, I’d rather hang myself from the top bunk with a belt, drowning in the clouds, food for the hounds, soundlessly unprofound, until I’m no longer around

Gather round the devil in the sky

There is no grace for the faceless, it’s too late

Consume hate, a new day, ask away, fade to grey, eating misery, pleading victim feed, nutrition vicious vitamin C, a happy family

Eye of romanticized beings, see through me, the devil looming, look at my face, the dirt in your coffin profit grave

Premonitions prolific in the Bishop’s arithmetic

Arms wide to hug another suicide

Stuttering a coward

Maimed until we’re slain

War cries, tears salty blue

Victimized politicized, what is left to do?

Debilitate and recreate the hatred of my youth

Join up or suck up

 

Get shook up, fucked up

It’s not like we burnt out, the ashes and coal continue to burn, we were not set on fire, we merely continued burning

It’s a constant uphill battle, there is no mountain summit, only poems of skyward stone

Morsels celebrate before being put out for garbage day

Between the station waves, I feel like I’m on tv

Subtle stuttering is mothering a runaway, confiscating, fluttering bubbling, unsung orchestrated, carpal tunnel on the runway emancipate the unsacred, and prepare for lift off into heaven’s five highway fly by 911 airways

You decided who I was without looking, why should I care about you

Read between the lines before you find me guilty, trust seems to be a frailty

If you ever ask, I’m already gone

I practice pacifism in this cataclysm

The only thing worth doing is poetry

I cannot conquer my mitochondria

It’s not just my wants that you’ve halted so I shouldn’t be complaining

But you don’t have to take everything I have and hold it over like a trophy

They played until stalemate, check beckons, time to be the spawn of a pawn reckoning, in the house of the king's effigy

I cannot control my pain and anger, a weapon in me made to bleed gravy in the home of hades, maybe if I could express myself, write the blood pipes down nice, I could be rid of it all, and revel unapologetically, in peaceful calm, ignorance

I want to write black over the whitest clovers, but when I can’t process a thought over, how can I automatize words?

If I can’t think right, I cannot be heard

Cut me a portion of fortune with portly motives, and poetry overflowing

Everlasting in our blasphemy

Welcome aboard to the disordered train of high octane schizophrenia chasing ya through the membrane of a life-chain

Take your seat with briefcase laced insanity, and traverse the planets of madness, gathering the scattered memories, and bury them in a cemetery

Author's Note

I very seldom reply to reviews, but I promise I read EVERY single one. I look forward to my next review, because it helps me learn. Even if it's just one word, I promise, I will be ecstatic to have the chance to hear what you have to say. Whenever you write something about my poems, or the themes of my poems, or criticize me it is not in vain. I will listen, learn and be thankful.