History of Pain - Dark Poetry

Whispers echo from afar in a peripheral world.

They are like me, hearing the rusty hum, clever to the energy of anguish and uncontrollable tears.

Static splits the picture exploring multiple images with fractured sorrows.

A prickly breath escapes, before a forceful weightiness slithers in.

I am as if facing Medusa herself.

Suspended in time, those lives that I have lived and a reign I sense only in remembrance.

My hands are weightless rolled in glass.

In silence, my heart drops to depths unknown except by the rising flow of sluggish blood and a flinch of terror. I am encased within timeless miseries that afflict the uncounted and defeat a countless many more.

So comfortable am I in its shadow that I envision the brutality of war and feel each casualty.

I am a shining star in a mournful constellation of collected souls bound by a curse of blood.

Contemplate the suffering with blue lips, feeling the worlds’ tragedies, barely breathing at the bottom of the sea. With a hook through my gullet and salt water breath I lovingly float in a fuzzy red haze.

History always remembers the pain.

Always.

Silent Screams

The dream is poetic.

No meter or rhyme: timing or consistency. 

The most brilliant of which lingers with the scent of yesterday.

Breathe deep the memories of a time or place.   

Real or imagined.

Snapshots of unconscious observations comingle with loathing.

Static fear.

Stifled cries.

One labored step after another

heavy eyelids and spastic joints.

Cameos of faces from the past or with publicly induced fame that does not impress me.

Larger than the life of the woken.

Grander.

Uncomfortable.

Fabulous moments of shocks and terror.

People doing strange things

Strange people who are relevant yet insane

where whim is rational and my voice is ineffective.

Inconsequential.

A concoction of all life’s hidden desires

 conscious wants and

disturbing appetites’.

Delusions.

One more moment of ecstasy in my slumber

One last visit from the mocha woman with the glittery soft breasts. 

Please let me cum before I wake.

Please let me wake before the dying shot kills me!

Metaphoric pain.

Voiceless whispers.

Silent screams.

Excruciating desire for this world of Escher to be a dream.

Desperately in need of my conscious life.

It wasn’t that bad,       

was it?

Exhale into the waking world relieved and disappointed.

Why the hell would I want to live there anyway?

                               The anti-me

The real me?

The part that has become broken and unhinge

Plagued with the absurd

in desperate need of repair.

But by whom?

By me?

In the madness of the moment who will save me when I cannot save myself?

Who will wake me?!