Certifiable

certifiable2

Among hazy swirls of black and red,
I escaped into the breeze.
Then stopped,
Suddenly.
Thought,
Suddenly.
Why bother at all?
I’m tired.
Tired of trying to make ugly things beautiful,
Just for what purpose?
To who’s benefit?
Art is a myth.
Life is a bigger myth.
I am the biggest myth yet.
Oh, rivers of blood!
Poisonous tears!
When it comes right down to it,
Who really cares?
You say you do,
And think you mean it,
Unfortunately,
Thoughts are devalued currency.
I hung myself with urgency.
Yet rope burns leave unsightly scars,
So close my casket door.
Quoth the writer, “Nevermore.”
Set me ablaze,
Burning flashes of pain,
Re-lived and re-invented,
Stabbed again and again and again.
But did you have to twist the blade?
I got the point.
Literally.
So stop throwing salt in my eyes,
In my wounds.
The salt of the Earth?
It’s of menial worth,
A bitter taste, I do not like.
A bitter feeling? Now that sounds right.
I lost it.
I had it once.
But now it is gone.
Although,
Who’s to notice?
Maybe it’s just hidden,
Underneath an old duvet
That screams,
“Stop paying attention!”
Every morning at a quarter passed three.
Right now you’re thinking
Goodness what does this mean?
I’d tell you,
Surely,
But I can’t be bothered.
Currently standing in line for the slaughter.
A lot of time that takes,
A lot of rhyme this makes.
You lost it.
I lost it.
Ah, the proverbial it.
You. I.
Lost. It.
You. You. I. You. I.
Well, maybe I should try . . . .

Temptations of a muddy heartbeat,
A clock that wants to stop.
Second after second dies in the shadows,
Then curls up on a bed of black rose petals,
Amidst the sweet aroma of wonder.
A complacent crack of thunder,
Sounds in the distance,
And says Goodbye to an existence,
That no one ever truly knew,
Just like the morning dew,
There, but over-looked,
Rare, and under-cooked.
Tossed in the shallowest of graves,
The spirit will amaze,
When it floats upward
And touches the stigmatic moon.
The angel’s dance is coming soon . . . .

There, that wasn’t so bad.
No, it was worse,
I just shat some ink in the hearse.
Mmm, now there’s a lovely image,
I bled out on the line of scrimmage,
And was eaten by the buzzards,
And also my second cousin’s neighbor’s mother.
It’s okay because I’m a donor.
Just please don’t take my eyes,
That shit gives me creepy vibes.
Look! I see you! But I’m not me!
Ha ha ha, hee hee hee hee.
How’s that for some cheat rhyme?
Has the same effect as cheap wine;
Gets the job done,
But dealing with it, isn’t fun.
You know what else isn’t fun?
This.
Not to read.
Not to write.
Not the stitches from a fight,
That never will see an end.
Can you end it for me?
I’m tired, you see
(although, I did say that already).
Keep on using that knife,
But hang a left towards a major artery,
Internal organ, jugular vein.
Anything, anywhere.

I’m going insane.
I can’t live like this,
I can’t be compared.
I can’t kill the anxiety,
I can’t stop being spared.
Spare me? Why?
You hear me cry?
You see me reaching for the sky?
With a prayer on my tongue and a wanting to die?

I’m just kidding.
Or am I?
So let’s start the bidding:
First – left eye.
Hey! I already told you!
That creeps me right out.
You can’t have it, it’s mine!
Have you figured me out?
No? Shoot.
No, don’t shoot!
I meant darn.
Why are you always causing bodily harm?
When will you accept me for me?
Or at least make peace with one personality.
We’ll be friends on Tuesday,
How does that sound?
“Wednesdays aren’t good for me,”
Says the killer clown.
Friday’s no good,
Nope, not Sunday either.
On Mondays I huff big cans of ether.
Thursdays are out,
Yep, Saturdays too.
And every third month I contract the flu.
Germs.
Germs, I spread.
Germs.
Germs, I said.
Neatly in the words you read.
Had enough yet?
I thought so.
Besides, it’s time for me to go.
I’d love to stay and continue this,
But you threw away my poor remittance.
So goodbye, farewell,
I bid you adieu.
I’m terribly crazy,
Aren’t you?
Maybe so, but not as much as me,
I bleed insanity.
And write and write and write it down,
And use my most creative nouns,
To say the one thing I know is true:
No matter what you say or do,
Or what your logic screams at you,
A spirit’s voice can be misread,
I should know, I’m already dead.

certifiable3

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