deepundergroundpoetry.com
Heartless
Was I to feel nothing when it happened(?/.)
A strong sense of justice is something to laugh at.
Call it instinct.
Call it being dead, if perspective matters.
Whatever you call it, it’s just another distraction from the idle pot brewing in your head.
A source of entertainment. A gateway thought, to more thoughts.
Not to forget the cold and clammy skin tugging at your (in)humanity.
However you’d prefer to describe it.
If I can sleep on anything, I’d like to on myself.
Can’t let contemplation slip past that barless prison, no.
A few strokes of the brush and ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶b̶e̶l̶i̶e̶v̶e̶ you can paint a new ̶m̶a̶s̶t̶e̶r̶p̶i̶e̶c̶e̶ ̶o̶v̶e̶r̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ world.
Couple of lines of poetry and you ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶k̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶c̶a̶n̶ feign insight with the lack of experience.
But the fear is what keeps you awake at night.
Doubts cut like straight razors through your passive, unyielding, flesh.
Bleeding assumptions along with something called emotion.
Losing most of it.
Till you wake up and realize that you can’t, anymore.
Maybe a thought or two would have been nice, just to know what it feels like again.
Burying what’s alive only delays its inevitable resurrection.
But when it does— that’s a ghost story for another time.
A strong sense of justice is something to laugh at.
Call it instinct.
Call it being dead, if perspective matters.
Whatever you call it, it’s just another distraction from the idle pot brewing in your head.
A source of entertainment. A gateway thought, to more thoughts.
Not to forget the cold and clammy skin tugging at your (in)humanity.
However you’d prefer to describe it.
If I can sleep on anything, I’d like to on myself.
Can’t let contemplation slip past that barless prison, no.
A few strokes of the brush and ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶b̶e̶l̶i̶e̶v̶e̶ you can paint a new ̶m̶a̶s̶t̶e̶r̶p̶i̶e̶c̶e̶ ̶o̶v̶e̶r̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ world.
Couple of lines of poetry and you ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶k̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶c̶a̶n̶ feign insight with the lack of experience.
But the fear is what keeps you awake at night.
Doubts cut like straight razors through your passive, unyielding, flesh.
Bleeding assumptions along with something called emotion.
Losing most of it.
Till you wake up and realize that you can’t, anymore.
Maybe a thought or two would have been nice, just to know what it feels like again.
Burying what’s alive only delays its inevitable resurrection.
But when it does— that’s a ghost story for another time.
Published 21st Sep 2016
| Edited 2nd Apr 2017
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Anonymous
21st Sep 2016 3:25pm
A few strokes of the brush and ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶b̶e̶l̶i̶e̶v̶e̶ you can paint a new ̶m̶a̶s̶t̶e̶r̶p̶i̶e̶c̶e̶ ̶o̶v̶e̶r̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ world.
Couple of lines of poetry and you ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶k̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶c̶a̶n̶ feign insight with the lack of experience.
^^^^ this right there my love, should knock some cold stone reality in all who write as if they were out there smelling the mud, the fear and the sound of breaking hearts in their blood dripping hands.
Dammit D, you did it again with this one.
Couple of lines of poetry and you ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶k̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶c̶a̶n̶ feign insight with the lack of experience.
^^^^ this right there my love, should knock some cold stone reality in all who write as if they were out there smelling the mud, the fear and the sound of breaking hearts in their blood dripping hands.
Dammit D, you did it again with this one.
22nd Sep 2016 3:36am
You sir, Rock! I'm loving where your mind went in this piece honey. :)
"Whatever you call it, it’s just another distraction from the idle pot brewing in
your empty head. " <--- these vibes can come from those who are so self-absorbed that their empty heads competes with an empty heart.
"Whatever you call it, it’s just another distraction from the idle pot brewing in
your empty head. " <--- these vibes can come from those who are so self-absorbed that their empty heads competes with an empty heart.
