What am I trying to say?
Why do I feel this way?
Why must the pen do
the talking
When the words are walking
bouncing in my brain +
sinking down the drain into
the waste of insecurity
I wish I had a permit to
describe my awful fate
a visible item
a way to relate
in silence
how I feel inside my head
it's far too easy to say
I wish that I were dead
when in reality
it is more complicated than that
I wish I was alive
in colours so bright
that everyone could see
that would identify
the soul between my skin + say
that's me!
The man with words
that march in endless formation
a floral presentation
would serve better
than an empty string of thoughts
that go nowhere
nowhere
nowhere,
but here:
the end
___________________________________
In every silent moment
I am writing +
there aren't a lot
but that's all I've got to
separate me out
like the prize pig
in the slaughterhouse
whose life ends the same
as his other porkish friends
but whose life was
indescribable
right up until the end
when an
inevitable blade was
dropped + fell
sharp into his neck
you could hear him squealing
his porcine rhapsody
+ so that's what I'll write
that's what I'll commit to do
before my life is done +
through +
threw +
through
thrown away like crispy bacon bits
tossed into the wind
I can feel the butcher's grin
