when the monsters inside me…
… have the faces of people around me
your slurs blunder all day
your mouth won’t shut
your voice heard
in each and every room
scarcely scattered scat
simultaneously stingy
squeezing my skull
baby boy in adult surroundings
man with a pacifier
stuck in his full mouth
a boisterous, bragging blunt
blatantly
imitating
heroes he wanted to be
pumping ego into his muscles
earnestly
he’s living in a dream
not in reality
still sixteen
I was twenty when I got sick
I didn’t know what to do with it
no knowledge, no abilities, no dispositions
to handle challenging situations
neither do they
psychology is not taught
in school
so, what are they going to do
then
when sickness can overwhelm them
at any time
in their twenties
when is the best time for it
no earlier, no later
just exact time
to break every, even the hardest heart
and forget about
the smallest scrap
of any civilised dab
***
Thank you for reading!
If you liked this poem, you can add your Insights, Comment, leave a Heart, Tip, Pledge, or Subscribe. I will appreciate any support you have shown for my work.
You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Mescaline Brisset on my Vocal profile. The art of creation never ends.
About the Creator
Mescaline Brisset
if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
so you want to be a writer? – Charles Bukowski
Find me on Medium
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also pledge your support or give them a one-off tip, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Reader insights
Outstanding
Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!
Top insight
Excellent storytelling
Original narrative & well developed characters
Keep reading
More stories from Mescaline Brisset and writers in Poets and other communities.
His Haibun
He does not like poetry; I write it anyway and do not tell him. It's true his face is not a poet's face. It is round and open, youthful; too apt to be compared to the sun. His nose is neat. It is impossible to imagine him smoking a cigarette, terse, full of cheekbones and tension. His warmth burns my fingertips. I am here for his fascinating body, the haphazard freckles I touch one by one; he is here for my eyes, just my eyes. A sunbeam sneaks through the curtains and pierces us both, sizzling the spices of his skin. I inhale and wrap myself in him. He kisses my eyes.
By TheSpinstress6 days ago in Poets
Comments (1)
Mescaline Brisset is not accepting comments at the moment
Want to show your support? Send them a one-off tip.