Source:
Adults
Author:
jonny graham
Title:
I love the smell of cliches in the morning .
I thought picking up the pieces would bleed the demons dry , I really thought it might help , but all it did was generate more hope . For other mortals that is what gets them through , but not with me . I was just so insecure in my new spun web of venomed mediocrity . The hope is slowly killing me . It is a razor edge cutting deep within my fragile quivering flesh . Gliding past the stretchered tendons , hunting for that crimsoned poison that steams through my dying body . ( don't fool yourselves , this is not a love poem ) . So how cliched is crimson as a reference to blood , huh ? I am a cliche ! The act of writing brought him back , the man I once admired and called associate . So noble and righteous within decision . The best interests enacted with surgical precision , costing me my life , massed out on everything . Should I hate you , or your careless mother ? Can I trust you ? With the belief that you were always doing the right thing . Why do you think you are me ? You share my lack of hope . I wish I could do a Ritchie ! I wish I could do a Kurt ! Flood the room with hazy pink mist , but I can't because I wouldn't get my wish . I want to be here after the event , to stew in the hot-tub of carnage , and smear the coagulating blood around , you know - Charlie Manson style . Die Pig ! 666 ! and all that family shit . While you all gawp and goon , and take camera pics , and scream that it is way too late for reading the writing on the walls . Oh yes , I am slowly dying , the hope is killing me . I really thought I was destined for so much more , I used to be such a glory whore !
I was created from monumental moments , just like the bullet holes in holocaust walls , or the grinning teeth in murdered tiger skins . Those moments may appear small to some , but they make junkies for the high of supremacy . It has been so long since I had a fix , I spent too long sitting on the fences , and now I capitulate without the hit . It's been ages , half a lifetime , since I experienced a miracle on God's battlefield , on the far side of this earth . Seeing the birth of all my sons , now I only see them occasionally . And the hope is slowly killing me . I wish I was sedated with contentment , greedy for more , wanting more , deserving more , writing more has made me manic , nay , make that bi-polar ! I want to step out in front of morning traffic , that same action we have all thought about but will not talk about , because it's taboo , like incest or cannibalism . I am all washed up , tainted , trash , not good enough to love , too bad to hate . I am slowly dying , riven with tumours , nervously broken down at Heaven's closing gate . And you are now inconsequential , choking back your bile and lack of faith ! My spirit drifts and waits impatiently in wreaths of mist . Hope is slowly killing you , and me too . I have to fight to stay here , to finish my work , to end this wayward mission . Suicide is not my fix , not my answer to murder of the soul . If you find me sleeping deeply , do not resuscitate , I am dying piece by piece , and the passing makes me whole . I fall bleeding , and the weeping words spew rhetoric from forked tongues , I am oh so slowly dying , devastation dogs me in my dreams and the hope is just prolonged . I am really slowly dying. Listen , I hear angels singing deathly songs .
Published on writebuzz®:
Adults
> Poetry
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