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can you hear it? the muffled sound of emotions being ripped torn and buried can you smell it? the rotting flesh of corpses behind the closet door the stench of shit we waded through waist-deep can you see it? the invisible gashes the cracks the shattered pieces of ourselves the memories playing over and over can you feel it? the pressure and tension the cold and the hot the devices of torture can you taste it? the bittersweet the sour and the pills we all gagged on behold how the feelings are slowly being unearthed the bones are bursting through the door the shit is floating in the bathwater behold the scars on our bodies in pieces barely glued together the infrequent release of combustion-- the rage, the guilt, and the tears. behold the handcuffs the leather the masks and costumes i wear to hide to protect and conceal and the pills we have to choke down to heal someday i hope someday we awake from this nightmare. i've been to hell and back. whatever she has to do alone, i hope she doesn't go there-- or at least that she'll leave some of the baggage behind
6 responses total.
IMHO, it weakens your point a little bit when you do the "5 senses" routine
with the first lines of the first 5 stanzas. That sort of setup always
strikes me as a bit cheesey, and in this case it makes cheesey what would
otherwise be a pretty stunning poem.
Of course, that's just a personal pet peeve of mine, and others may disagree.
That quibble aside, in any case, this is well-done.
("P.T.S.D"=?)
I can't remember whether it's a disorder or a syndrome, but I changed it: Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome.
The way things are going, I may well write something on this too. Just wait. It's lurking in the back of my head as we speak.
this is great Jone...simply great, I'd have to disagree with orinoco however, the senses thing worked rather well (for me at any rate)
I thought so, too.
Once again, real life is the basis.
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