I’m trying to listen.
To the rhythm of my thoughts;
The sound they make as they shatter a placebic reality.
I want to swing hard and strike true brilliance,
Release a great grotesqurie of violent epiphanies from my chest.
I want to witness my desolation,
Mourn the monotony.
I’m only rotting flesh and decaying marrow,
My want morbid, yet monolithic and real.
Hunger makes me tremble;
It pierces the dead ache in my chest.
Hunger makes me reckless;
It makes me bleed.
Come, now. Look here;
At this bleeding, aching creature made of hunger, hedonism, and esoteric beliefs.
Take her, if you will.
Mould her into art — a spectacular tragedy.
[Featured image via: Silvia Grav]