Fight, fight hard.
It grips my eyeballs,
squeezes and tears are always rolling.
I want a trowel.
Dig straight into the top of my head.
Pull out the slime
that wants me to kill my soul,
to shatter my vessel.
Where does the slime go when I die?
Scream for help but it’s foolish.
They can’t remove the slime.
Their medicines are Band-Aids
for a brain blasted by a .357.
Let me hop on a balloon,
fly until it pops,
land in a volcano,
disintegrating into molten slime,
slime remainders that have lost their power.
#1 by Evelyn on March 8, 2011 - 5:14 am
Slime is such an disgusting word, it really makes me understand how vile you find your unhappiness.
#2 by Carl on March 8, 2011 - 7:53 am
…a substance that is liquid and is solid and it flows in to block your consciousness from all that is good in the world. It is horrid stuff…
#3 by Promising Poets Parking Lot on March 8, 2011 - 9:33 am
sad, best regards.
you write super well. poem on.
love your blog, your poetry is impressive!
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#4 by Carl on March 8, 2011 - 11:14 pm
Thank you for your comment! I’ve had time constraints reducing my Rally capabilities, but I will be back.