Spectres of Ignorance: The Art of Conformism.

Words do not flow in the same way they did. Perhaps they never will. This hurts to read. I do not know why.

Words carried in spare-change purses,

Tightly held to the heart of the gutter-girl,

She bleeds lyrics and verses to songs unsung,

Selective mute. Hidden mutters.

 

26 letters.

26 letters that do no not behave on the page,

refusing to make sense to the (in)sane.

Anyone that is not inside her (your) mind.

 

Words mean everything,

And yet nothing at all.

 

Her brain is her prized possession,

Her intellect worth its weight in gold,

And yet she is irrevocably dim.

Choke on her halo,

She’s worth her weight in filth.

 

Stare at pastel-painted spectres,

Picture of dainty femininity,

Hidden behind mousey-masculinity.

Harsh lines and nasally shouts-

She refuses to try.

 

Inhale.

One last, stuttering gulp of oxygen (life),

Lungs stop working, eyes stop blinking, heart stops beating.

Marrow burns with the desire to feel beyond the self.

 

Awake in the same bed,

at the same time,

open the same eyes,

surrounded by the same emptiness.

she is the same you.

 

She braids her hair to feel pretty,

Paints her face to feel beautiful,

The clownish façade is brutal and ugly.

 

Cutting cheekbones and pointed chin,

She has 206 bones and wants to feel them all.

Repose and repeat,

Exotic tongue and stuttered speech.

 

She’s weightless.

The End

2 comments about this poem Feed