I’m prone to bouts of anger, short tempered, the overly sensitive type. Writing is a way to make sense of it all. While art is a way in which I can escape the thoughts that haunt me shutting off conscious thought and allowing my hands to guide me.
Two houses at the end of the street, was it the left, was it the right? Same color house same size same year built. I never could tell my left from my right without my hands raised.
The house on the left had a body on the counter filled of knives, a head hanging from the string upon the fan, and a basement that conveniently flooded last week in a little bit of rain.
It had to be them they were twisted people finding humor in death and mutilation. Who else could it have been?
The house on the right clean cut prayers at the dinner table crosses upon the walls wholesome that’s what they were with a basement never to enter because it was dusty and old.
Out of their houses the left were often in a fight pissed off out at the store screaming about the pickles upon the floor. “It’s a slipping hazard!” Hands in the air clumsy fingers always talking to the cashier a flirtatious line the cashier often rolled their eyes.
Out of their houses on the right ready to clean the spill all themselves because they were always quick to lend a hand keeping the floors clean smiling at the cashier a smile back, always polite they were.
Apologies from the right heads down tears receding prayers to the family over a loss such as this.
Anger from the left no apologies as the son was carried away in cuffs. “What evidence?” They demanded Video evidence of him pounding the cashier in the back alley near the dumpsters “It was mutual!” he yelled.
“They dated,” the mother cried out. “She’s been over for dinner several times.”
A hand upon the cashiers body that laid upon the slab a last breath offered “Left,” escaped its prison “wait,” the words fading with me I never did know my left from my right without my hands raised.
The Earth is aching beneath the bodies standing upon it as all the feet and all the paws drag across the crust weighing deeper upon the land the Earth begins to crack.
Bursting of rage the energy entering minds feeling the despair feeling the rage the bodies begin to break breaking themselves and others losing a sense of sensibility because the more the animals grow and evolve the more the Earth takes on and the less capacity it has.
We begin to feel what the Earth is feeling and we begin to unravel as we roll ourselves back up the same as yarn we longer look quite the same because once we feel it we can’t stop.
A body of little importance swept in because in the aspects of time most of us are merely subjects of little importance rarely inspected just a particle to slip through the black hole of space atoms uniting together again an accident simply a casualty of little importance eventually becoming a case to study because how did they combine together again the same as before?
I cannot think right I cannot feel right I cannot find right I cannot taste right I cannot smell right because there are to many screams to many chants to listen to to many fumes polluting to many foods to consume to many words floating about my air and I cannot think I cannot find I cannot hear I cannot smell I cannot touch there are just to much to many words already spoken to many poems already written to many foods already found to many smells to cover the others all these perfumes I cannot I cannot think I cannot speak enough I cannot feel it all at all times I cannot find right because there is to much and I ask do you you have an answer?
A blade inserted disrupting reactions and causing the thoughts to blurry as the drainage seeps filling the eye cavities dripping it releases and yet the entire system is still overwhelmed.
Several taps a harder hit trying to regain focus the thoughts are filling as the blade is digging deeper harder it is to think the harder it is to smile to feel less pressure because the pressure is building beneath the blade and it hurts the pain is difficult because the blade is strong and in each victim it sharpens itself.
Even when the blade breaks it wins because with each break it becomes several more parts ready to slip in within more victims rendering their calm halting their laughter and turning them into lemures.
Through my eyes the frustrations escape in their liquid state a touch of a hand and within they seep again clinging within the inner wall low as I can I crawl as my mind eats the burdens poisoning the organs I try and I try there are so many reasons why to breath and awake each day always I’m searching for a way to breath and breath again I cry to my friend nestled within my chest to keep going and never rest for when it stops its beat that’ll be my official defeat.
Life is an exchange a returning of one product for that of another adding parts taking pieces away creating more for another to thrive.
Growth cannot happen without competition to provoke the interest of striving harder feeding the victors.
When in actuality life is a unit in which weakness and strength comes together and without the other life would never continue because it’s each piece that makes life happen for life is every breath at once.
I don’t want your heart I already have my own and you wouldn’t be able to survive without your heart beating within your chest I’d never feel any rest if your eyes no longer opened and your hands no longer caressed every part of me.
Please keep it for yourself buried within the chest cavity in which it belongs love isn’t taking it whole more than a heart is able to give rather love is receiving and reciporcating all awhile remembering each parts separate as much as they are a unit.
We’re not one entity we’re two separate bodies conjoining for mere moments of time and parting enough to do as we must living and joining within the moments we can’t breath alone and separating when we need our own air never compromising our own values because love doesn’t mean quitting upon yourself it means having an extension of help in the moments that are the hardest.
Death is always a thought away slipping it’s way within the gourmet even the most finest course could be laced with the worst. A dinner of thoughts filling the stomach with force after a breakfast that left the mind in unrest.
Trapped in a car thinking of hearts afar what if they stumble a rock in the way and they tumble a broken spleen a cracked neck bruising their mind mean what if they laugh and a rib is cracked in half what if they slip in the middle of their flip a snap and their life is a wrap.
Death is always there a thought that’s hard to share a constant worry turning the vision blurry quickly a panic an eruption of thoughts through the static anger and yelling to stop from swelling because their death shutters my breath for the biggest fear in me is death taking them before taking me.