Raskolnikov

Neglect the wisdom given to Laertes,

Revert to the wild animal beneath the breast,

Bite the hand,

Let the chaos run and the mind race.

 

You’re the old dirty old sweatshirt

Slipped off without the passing thought,

Discarded into the corner and already forgotten.

 

I tier even myself,

The monotonous beat of the drum continues;

Let the pens tip cut the skin,

Tear a hole deep enough to let the beetles out.

They scratch on thoughts,

Crawl down the spine until they can chew on the heart;

Let them pour from the skull

Until their bodies fill the pages.

 

You became another butterfly

Something chased,

Not meant to be caught.

 

Only the blanked cake is remains,

The good bits have already been chewed off

Only the gristle and bones are left.

 

The devils whisper,

 It’s slippery words that hold their shape until pulled from the darkness;

Hope,

Love,

Trust,

Crumble at the touch of reality.

 

When simple kindness is diluted,

Polluted in the minds eye

Until what comes out are thoughts that bare no resemblance to life’s surroundings.

 

To many back-alley bets

Leave your pockets as empty as your hands

Grasping at the smoke of apparitions

That only send you to bed cold and alone.

 

Life slips back again to its old worn groove

When you live by the backwards riddle,

Where the more you give the less is wanted.

 

The doom clock wound down

It no longer chimes,

Replaced with the empty forest

Where the birds have all gone silent

The wind no longer blows;

Back to empty window

Staring into the nothing,

Letting the abyss wash you over.

 

You take up the pieces

Ready them with soap,

Holding the fools hope

Another could cross your path,

Walking with the black cat at your side

Looking for your next ladder to walk beneath.

 

 

  “If I do not write to empty my mind, I go mad.” ~Lord Byron