Wordle #179

I cannot abide this malaise,
the transition from limbo
to a cell of artificial design.
I want to live in the bones,
in the spaces creased
with perseverance.
It is in the depths
that I am made whole.
–
My heart is no longer cordate,
no longer flesh
it is an unsavory ligament
soliloquizing in inertia.
I stow it beneath the floorboards.
I hear it grunting and snuffling
like a fat, grey pig
as my fingers tick
aghast with the passage of time.
–
They say I am mentally ill,
that I must inoculate myself
against all thought and defect,
that I must become accountable.
I am a homely god,
my creations as mud on linen.
I go up in smoke
and there is no place in me
material enough to stitch.
–
For
https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2017/11/20/wordle-179/

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Perfect Monster

I chase the infinite through a mewling void.

What is found slides sideways past my nose.

Who am I and to what purpose am I to report?

You know me only as a shroud,

a white face curling at the edges.

–

Nothing is sacred until it is lost,

among such preciousness

I am so much less than I expected.

The abyss yawns bored of my reflection

and into it I cast my offal,

those miseries which have

rotted free of the umbilicus.

–

Do not invite me to forgiveness.

My inner child frightens me

what she did in order to live,

what she saw and what still lurks

in the shadow of her ancient heart.

–

She must have been stronger than me

a hero and a demon distilled into one.

I cannot think of her

without remembering the shame,

the shame of my survival and the toll it took

to create of a child a perfect monster.

No Use

Is desire such an empty thing?

Each time a star falls

it is greeted with a wish

and there is no end to the greed.

–

I am a window without resolution,

a door impeded and without passage,

a slide that spirals down into infinity.

If I were nothing would you love me?

–

When I am called to action

I find myself a mitten instead of a boot.

Were I to crawl I might find my dignity,

the shards of an ego gone circumspect.

–

Why do you look at me that way?

I am not a plaything, a secret

willed into existence

by a disreputable muse.

You cannot strip me of my roots.

–

My curves have worn me down.

I am sparse, thin in inflation.

There is no use hiding my face

behind yours anymore,

no use at all.

–

Together our skeletons make a nest

but it is without warmth

that we lie frozen back to back

facing our respective walls.

–

I keep catching shrapnel.

The wars we carry inside of us

are so easily misplaced

and I am tired of being a mark.

Sunday Writing Prompt #228 “It’s All In The Title”

I am not a man who visits desire.

A shriveled fruit, a pillar of salt

my emptiness splits me like a moat.

–

I am the alter ego who got away.

a crippled fetus, a dissident fugue

the light shrugs me off like a ghost.

–

I sleep with the corners tucked in

that I can keep the darkness close

for in that darkness I have no distinction.

–

I haven’t written very much poetry lately nothing that you haven’t seen so I am very rusty

For

https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2017/11/12/sunday-writing-prompt-228-its-all-in-the-title/