Faint at first the drums beat, then louder.
I have been unchained, unleashed.
My cell has been opened.
I feel the rhythm beating within my chamber.
The furnace glows red and blood like steel boils.
Burning veins from within .
Outside vultures.
Circling, dancing in the sky on tattered wings.
Spitting venom.
Their shadows block out the Sun.
In darkness I stand alone.
The drums beat their monotone
The flame burns violently.
Fed by pain, my inferno.
It’s heat burns the darkness away.
Pain retreats.
I surrender myself.
With hatred engulfed I roam,
Incinerating the beasts, ripping out their tongues.
And when the fires subside,
I look back at glowing cinders and ash.
I flee, from myself, I return bound to Tartarus,
Alone .
Until the drums beat their monotone.
Her eyes have fury in them
They are glossed over and red
You can see the anger in her eyes
She's about to explode
She trys to breath
In and out
Nothing happens
She is boiling
Red so fierce
Can't hold it
She's in a rage
She's lost all control
Cant contain it
Fire in her eyes
Can't fight it
She is on the verge
Pushing back
She's about to burst
She's going insane
She burst's into flames
She's gone.
nowadays all she does is whine about her bodily pains,
but when you were left alone,
she stayed drunk, prowling the bars
days on end,
oblivious to the emotional wreckage left
on your chest, like a hot iron
melted through the tender heart of a 10 year old,
the open wound to the
skin,
cauterized shut
too soon,
without even leaving any open flesh
for the pain to be released,
seared closed with the shame, pain, and false pride of generations,
sealed in for years like a safety box of magnets,
pulling you towards anything and everything self-destructive
in a desperate search for some morsel of hope,
that the next christmas dinner might be more than
knocking on the doors of neighbors, being lucky enough to be
asked in to share a holiday meal,
and an attempt to be noticed for something other than the burden
you were to her deep and fervent longing for
the escape, into smoke filled rooms,
that reeked with the heavy, putrid smell of week-old frying grease,
cigarettes, and hairspray, that became one of your main
reasons for going to live with your dad--
other than the day she up and left for california,
a 50 dollar bill to substitute her mac and cheese, dribbled with
one and a half inches of ashes off a pall mall,
only to be less than reluctantly welcomed by him,
and a stepbrother who most always was
notably more worthy of better dirtbikes, nicer clothes
and a much more frequent pat on the back
for a job well done,
that most often wasn't.
a dollar for him and quarter for you, along with the bottom bunk,
that smelled like pee from all the years he wet the bed,
only ever good enough for sloppy seconds--
and then there was brownie,
poor broken down swayback, with skin infections,
baldspots and degenertive bone disease,
in light of your brother's black stallion stud,
as if the 6 inch scar on the back of your leg wasn't enough
from your father's drunken rage with a 4 inch hunting knife,
and the glass from the window that left it's souvenir the night he threw you
across the room, all before the age of 14.
shit.
i may have shot that horse between the eyes too.
11:37 PM 6/26/2013
©
.........
Glass underneath her feet doesn't hurt