Does anyone think how I think?
The words that scramble in my skull
like the static from the television
of my grandmother's living room.
The voices that clamor for attention
as they bash their brains
into the walls of my own
and shatter themselves into kaleidoscopes
that riot colors behind my eyes.
The fears that quell hope
like a candle doused
by the waters of Hurricane Isaac
circa 2004, while I flee
from the bus stop,
raincoat shining like a gold coin
at the bottom of a fountain.
Do they hear the songs
that flow and morph
and dance to their own tempos,
like cascading light waves
crashing into themselves
in a discordant stream of consciousness
that I struggle to control?
Do they taste the sweat beading on my lip,
as I hold cue cards in front of an audience
that wants only for me
to plummet off the stage
and mesh bloodily into the orchestral pit,
and whisper my last line to the trumpet
collecting dust
from my sixth grade year?
I ask these questions, not as a rumination,
nor a ruination,
nor any kind of rationale
that ponders the intricate clockwork
of the working mind.
I ask only that I might know if I am
as alone as I feel
and that the touch
of sin
might one day become the caress of God.
And that, in the end, He cares, too.
-
Author:
JCE (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 23rd, 2021 18:29
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 30
Offline)
Comments3
Engaging read ... some very strong lines here ... I especially like these lines
‘raincoat shining like a gold coin
at the bottom of a fountain.’
Do they hear the songs
that flow and morph
and dance to their own tempos,
like cascading light waves
A strong piece of writing ) very expressive
It's always rewarding to hear fellow writers engage with lines from a piece. Thank you for your feedback, I feel grateful for the compliment.
A stunning image:
'while I flee
from the bus stop,
raincoat shining like a gold coin
at the bottom of a fountain.'
Absolutely beautiful ❤️
Thank you! The scene is from my childhood and it felt a little awkward to include, so I'm thankful a writer appreciates it.
'I ask these questions, not as a rumination,
nor a ruination,
nor any kind of rationale
that ponders the intricate clockwork
of the working mind.'
that 'Clockwork Orange', of a chaotic creativity, that we've all dipped,
our now seared, fingertips - in
from Time to Time...
poetry as a form of self healing's: self-expression, is a wonderful tool
but like all tools, it takes time to wield-it, just right
keep writing, keep striving, keep sharing
keep healing!
Mek, I'm so appreciative of the support you've given all of my stories. It's a wonderful thing to have a poet as talented as yourself offering applause to pieces as reflective as what I've posted so far. You make this forum feel all the more welcoming because of it.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.