De-composed

The shadows cast a shield of comfort…
his thumbs hurt,
a ray of daylight shines through his blinds
to give his eyes discomfort.

Hands clenched against his forehead…
he stares at his decorated walls,
and recalls the days without torment.

Introverted diversions further and further
became a burden, discouraged and nourished his
disturbance, he felt deserted.

Lost in a void
within his own reality,
disregarded others to find sanction
in his personality.

Fallacies…
plagued his progression.
Suppression of memories
led to depression and aggression.

Fingertips scarred with infection from
pictures torn in sections,
pasted his many faces with blood
to view his imperfections.

It made no common connection…..
he saw the misery through the smiles,
and denial in his own reflection.

His silent cries go unheard as he
stares into despair…
scared, but lacks strength to ask
if anyone is out there.

His words provide him with an outlet.
scattered thoughts deface his walls
with scrawls that resemble the shape of mountains.

Letters become landscapes in a picture
painted in paragraphs.
The more his hand shakes as his scriptures
display his epitaph.

He retreats into the corner of his bedroom.
Exhausted,
falls asleep,
has dreams of isolated death in his restroom.

Awaken, adjacent to vacant space in
his basement,
impatiently tracing the ways he came
to this placement…

He walks in his dreams,
doesn’t know he’s awake yet.
A clicking sound loudly originates
from his tape deck.

Takes a deep breath…
only to open his eyes, surprised
to find all sides
of his feet wet.

Lays helplessly within the comfort of emptiness.
As the blood dries, his cries
echo and shatter his every sense.

Still no one hears him,
as he’s buried in isolation.
He’s on his own now…
in conflict with his imagination.

Numb to claustrophobia.
His time alone, documented on microphones
as a chronological story of…
a madman with a mission.
To free the sadness, madness, and vanish
the damage that’s within him.

The recordings are looped and played
for days on end….
days on end…
He blames the ways of man.

He prays in the form of question…
asking God for forgiveness,
to pay witness to his grimness
without his blessings.

He grimaces from tension in his
kneeling position,
peeling his visions,
as his healing condition.

But the root of the problem lies beyond
the core of his memories…
there’s something missing,
and he’s wishing for this form of therapy.

He sifts through photos for hours,
soaked from his flood of tears.
Each moment presenting love
he hasn’t known for years.

He’s drowning now,
in attempts to swim to the surface.
His purpose,
to find the hand that won’t
desert his.

Written by hypoetical (circa 2003)



Copyright © hypoetical 2016. All rights reserved.