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by Erin Shea 7 months ago in surreal poetry

ca. 5000 BCE

The forlorn, human shape is so recognizable.

Unblinking despondency carved into stone,



and canvas.

It's remarkably easy to paint despair --

sometimes it's turbid

covered in oil,

and blood

It reads:

Burn yourself on purpose.

Taste the drain cleaner.

It yells:

This is only the beginning

but here's your expiration date.

("are you feeling any better?")

Or, it's artificial,

like screams in slasher movies

presupposing an audience.

It talks of revenge,

but revenge means getting up and moving,

separating stone palm from stone neck -

and there's no breaking that inward shape.

Survival is not that simple.

It's definition... not that forgiving.

("why the long face?")

At the head of it all

there lie the creators -

tremulously holding despair

as this orb of keenest inspiration.

They peel down their nails,

grind their teeth,

strain their eyes,

use their veins as bookmarks...

It's been millennia, and the thinkers haven't changed.

surreal poetry

About the author

Erin Shea

New Englander

Living with Lupus

Lover of Language, Cats, Tea, and Rainy Days.

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