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". . .Then The Locust Said. . ."

by Jerald Dean about a month ago in art
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Self-Destruct

They want to know the smell of you

Smudged underneath the window frame

You've grown sick on all you had to lose

It's no use, you feel so damn insane.

Fucked up things still happen, true

But it's so easy just to look away.

You no longer care about the blue

As long as all life's violets sway.

The wind is all still left of you

Let it blow its breath through everyday. . .

It's like freedom in a different hue

"It's all alright. We'll be okay."

The thoughts of what you're still due

To you. From you. Why you're awake.

From a voice that feels a thousand moons

Away from seeming like the same -

You enjoy to wake up to. . .

It's like your own, though in a way,

Like a voice you could never view

As one you'd use, given your say.

That whisper's all that's left of you;

Let it hush its way into your name. . .

It's like freedom in a different hue

"It's all alright. We'll be okay."

There's never hope not hollowed out

By years of feeling all you've known -

Is no one cares to face the doubt;

It's closest when the monster learns.

A cliche sings and sometimes shouts

But you've forgotten how to use your words.

You've thought about the words you'd shout

If anybody really heard.

The late-night sweats and aches in bouts

Are excess dreams trying to work. . .

There's nothing left to talk about;

You'll sleep until your stomach hurts.

There's a stone you'll keep unsure of how

You'd wiggle from despite your worth.

A lesser part of you right now,

Is still struggling to hide the burns.

It'll break someday if you stay down

The bubbles grow and then they blur

You smoke so when the nightmares crowd

There's a chance you'll shake before they turn.

The dreams you have all feel too "loud"

Forget them soon before they lurk

There's nothing left to talk about;

You'll sleep until your stomach hurts.

art

About the author

Jerald Dean

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