Stream of Consciousness
Identity
There's fear in places it doesn't belong. I wonder why that is? The softest spoken sound can inspire terror- shivers, like knives on the toes of ballerinas, carving their way up my spine, stopping at my throat, silencing my voice with the threat of reality- don't scream, they'll hear you
By Christiane Winter2 years ago in Poets
Writer's Block. Top Story - August 2024.
I wanted to start a novel todayThat's been rolling round my mindI wanted to start a while agoBut I never seem to find the timeMy little brother's done itHis comes out next yearBut maybe I don't have it in me;The sum of all my fearsI wanted to start a novel todayA work of literature sublimeBut when I got down to itI just wrote this silly rhymeI know I'll write a page or twoI've tried this all beforeI'll read it back and think it's shitAnd throw it on the floorI feel I have a talentThat I'm letting go to wasteWith endless hours of procrastinationThen giving up in hasteBut maybe it's not for meAnd maybe that's okayAnd maybe when I'm fortyI'll get round to it somedayBecause what's the point in all of itIf no one ever reads meBecause my surname isn't KingAnd of course it never will beI want to start a novel todayAnd write just for myselfAnd if no one ever reads itIt can sit peacefully on my shelf
By J.P. Williamson2 years ago in Poets
Addiction, Affliction
Scratchin' the ol' wound, by boredom, by habit. Not festering yet, no. Though unable to cicatrize; a familiar itch - nonsensical. The youngster's flesh, desecrated once yes, remains and will remain forever itchy, devoid of meaning. Bandaged countless times, diligently ignored, a thruce? Until the afternoon of the midweek; falling shadows of the rotting day, akin to a forgotten memory one tries to push away, fruitlessly. As if struck by a summerish fever, the hand moves, the hand creeps... Inevitable, hopeless, lost. Crawling in circle, over and over and over, back to the ol' fountain, where despite a strong will one always goes back to. The wound reopens, the bandage long lost in the wind. Moaning, scratchin' the ol' wound. Relief, overwhelming relief.. Nails, bloodied in red, a red inkling, a red ink, undeniable proof of indulgence. One washes it all away, in the pure fountain, the fountain of reason? Pink-ish, troubled. Bits of clots, a most reviled reflection. All around, the inescapable noise of the water, splashing, and the itch, the itch, the itch... ''Is change impossible? Cursed, forsaken, Mad?'' Perhaps the wound is all there truly is. Everything else, mere spectacle; distractions, an interlude, a pause yes, until one scratches madly, entire mind and body focused on the familiar, on the so familiar pain, this tingle, and throwing away, out of the window, one's will; shrinking to a laughable speck, dust of dust, long lost in the wind as well. The hilarious thing, the uproaring thing is that it matters not whether one indulges or not. ''It does not matter!'' One shouts, blood everywhere, a whole mess, fountain of blood. One's face, crimson and primal, stuck in a frightful expression. And covering the splashing of the water, a maniacal laughter, echoeing in the white void that surrounds all.
By YonathanJ - Writer2 years ago in Poets
