(for my cousin who took his life)
Too late, too late, everything seems too late. He is too tired to sleep, he hates to stay awake. It all seems still and plastic, like artificial tulips placed on fresh mounds of dirt.
“For he has raked up his emotions, put them in pile and let phantom fingers wave them away. It’s a new day, trapped under a glass, he watch everything around him pass.”
He want to leave, but he’s too scared to stop his heart. Knives are appealing, sleeping pills gather his my hand, and the hollow words of lovers yet to be say nothing.
Something inside curls up like the feet at the end of his bed, and the sarcastic light of dawn has adjusted itself to his routine. So he start s again and put on a face as sweet as a cake.”
A lake of feelings gather into a great, black aura. His smile tells the world, “I’m okay.” Nevertheless, there’s always a crack that one can see if people stop focusing on themselves.
Haunted, dark, and craving affection; he hides himself like a nesting doll within a shell within a shell. Like a crustacean, his armor is hard, but the insides are soft and naked.
He is aware that people care, but they never consider his absence or the possibility of taking it all away. Because love is never felt until their fingers pick the strings of the heart’s harp.
Hooks, like ominous rooks, sweep in and pull him back down into misery. Misery, misery, it echoes through him; like past lives who were kept in boxes beneath floorboards.
These ghosts linger as if they were blown pieces of torn paper traveling nowhere, and inside their nestled chambers they try to scream; however, heavy chains wrap around their mouths.
The links shackle his arms and his ankles, and it’s as though gravity increases with every step. And while the Earth slowly snaps his legs, everyone else skips along.”
Their lives appear to be more opulent than his; not necessarily measured by riches, of course, but the frown is an Ethiopian and their bliss is an endless buffet.
He longs to devour what honey and bread they nourish themselves with and the overwhelming need to be full is sometimes worse than being a starving figure that drags itself.
So this is it, this is where the line meets an existence blanketed by invisible smog which chokes me like a noose and the world below is unsteady as a bar stool ready to break.
But always do as he says, not as he does. Love yourself, indulge in innocent sin, and forgive yourself. Embrace all and know somewhere in the cosmic vortex he will be waiting.