Shuddering

 
I'm sliding my clothes off.
I'm gripping at the skin
separating my breasts,
and I'm desperately trying to rip out
the portal of all this want.

Want for enlightenment.
Want for extraordinary circumstance.
Wanting to manifest
what I often imagine
is the face of my central organs.

Coagulating and undulating
against the neon lights of my fixations.
Abysmal, boundless.
Unfettered and electric
in their efforts to implode
as a tribute for all the supernovae
I dare to dream
create this stardust
that's hidden behind the illusion
of my glasses.

I was born a reincarnation of
patience,
death
and guarding the astral gates.
Father time keeps me on a pendulum
of isolation.
A constant swing
of vertical loneliness my lineage
has bared as tradition
despite oblivions promise.

I'm still here.
I'm still waiting
and I'm still paralyzed with despair.

There's something buried
underneath these elicit gravestones
of my goddamned stuttering heart
that's worth
so much more
than this fucking insignificance
I'm living.

The owls have been appearing.
In my dreams.
In my prodigal peripheral.
I'm slipping into malignance
and they warn me
with visions of talons
and bloody suns
and ominous wisdom
I don't need my ever hounding demons
to reanimate.

I love the tumble
that washes away neurosis.
The release
and the abandonment of tomorrow,
but I keep catching
the edges of jagged cliffs.

Before it's too late.
Before my chest caves in.
Before I'm desensitized in verdict.