circulation...

your measured phrase, precise, poignant
counters—juxtaposed against the
jarring cacophony of my endless complaint…
my words, like bursting vessels, short
circuiting, skirting reason,
kill kindness with a scalpel,
clutched knuckle white,
wielded like a machete…
on this page my whispers reverberate
with rage as i pen with blood,
my soul undone…
it’s not that i’m sick to death of living…
i am wary of death and the lack of suitable
oxygen to breathe.
the burden of creativity has furrowed hope
into arteries, to collect and
stagnate on the surface where my mind clogs
with collected waste…
there is too much to simulate, to orient into reality,
into patterns that appear and disappear
until i cannot control them…
the images come and go superimposed,
blurred, imperfect; and i cannot locate
the truth and its negative…
i struggle; i have no choice…
until my mind shrugs and i have lost
another precious hour…
for what?
for this—for living in reclusion,
back against the walls,
afraid to live, i create my own world,
wondering why i had to reject yours…


circulation...soliloquies
ja allen