It runs deep, it boils from the chasmic spaces in-between your bloodstream.
They say contain it, they say smile.
Their lips form shapes that spell out the words, calm down.
How can I possibly be calm?
Must I pretend that the climate of this world, doesn’t put me in a state of distress?
Why is it that only the expression of happiness is deemed acceptable ?
But then I remember they do not want you whole.
They tell you that your anger and your sadness is something that must be purged.
But do not let go of your anger.
For emotion is a thing of wholeness.
But display your anger in such a way, that they cannot call you angry.
Use your anger and show them that you are determined, you are definite.
Even with your anger, you are wholeheartedly whole.
For what is a human without their range of complex emotion.
Many will say you don’t have the right to your anger,
But the right is yours and yours alone.
I’m slowly forgetting the sound of your voice, the curve of your lips. I’m slowly forgetting the feeling of your arm hair brushing just slightly against mine. And with it, all these small inconsequential memories. I’m slowly losing interest in everything. I don’t listen really, I don’t listen to anything or anyone. Nothing excites me anymore, no small sparks of passion to keep me on my feet throughout the day. I don’t even really enjoy music either, not like I once did. The sound of it leaves me feeling, a tad bit numb. All I can do is write words, words that when formed together aren’t even good enough to be typed onto a blank page. But that’s all that’s left, a vacant space, a hole. I often wonder why it has come to this. It’s no one’s fault, but my own really..Why did I allow myself to fall in? Why must all beautiful things end in tragedy? Why must they end at all? For what is a writer without beauty? For what is a poet without tragedy?
For a poet without a muse, no longer has a reason to write.
But write they must.
And I will,
even if it means, no longer writing for you.
He stares into the mirror. Unable to recognize the man, who looks back at him. The joke. Dreary eyed, the skin of his eyelids so thin, they appear transparent. His lips stretched and black, form a smile curling to the tips of his ear lobes. His eerie laugh transitions from laughter to a painful screech, lastly fading into a soft distorted whimper. He knows that he must wipe his tears. “The show must go on.” He muttered. He applies the chalk white powder onto his already dried, lifeless skin. Smearing black circles around his eyes and red paint onto his lips. He smiles, remembering a time when his teeth were not rotten and his spirit was youthful, filled with life and passion. Those days are long gone now. A red curtain behind him is all that lies between him and the act. He exits onto the stage, filled with fraudulent laughter. The audience loves it, but does he?