Beneath the Skin

Beneath the skin, it’s waiting
like a time bomb, ticking,
it’s a race to the finish
it’s a streatch. All you can
do is wait it out, I tried
but you can’t pry it out,
it’s there and waiting. Benath

the skin. I can feel it in my pulse,
I can see it reach out
and touch everything I try
to do. It knocks the books
off the shelf, it stops
me from picking them up,
it dials my phone for me.

It’s taking over my poems,
it’s writing them for me tonight.
It is my mouth, it has my heart,
it is my soul. I never wanted
this. I never wanted anything.
You know nothing can be held
in its words, in these words. These
words are nothing. Take no stock
in this babble, this trite
verse. Take nothing from this
and it will be good for you.

You are reading an exorcism
you are reading a deamon
in ink, in pixels. You are reading
what one does not to think,
my little ticker, time bomb
conscience. That little voice
that says nothing ever goes right.
I ignored it too long, so now it screams.
Now it writes. Until I have control again.


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3 responses to “Beneath the Skin

  1. this builds with a great sense of menace.

  2. It made me feel like a million ants were eating my brain from the inside…….which is a good thing.

  3. Your poem reminds me of Poe’s imp of perversity, that unseen force that compels us to do things our better natures might not do, in calmer times. I like zaphodfreek’s comments! Great expressive work, slynne.

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