Signed, Pitiful rambling mess.

chadwick

Signed,
Pitiful rambling mess

These walls need to speak to me, if only,.. momentarily.
Not much natural light spreads itself in here.
So confining, air stale.
Servant to the darkness of no escape.
Movement in here is in small,.. doses.
Shuffling caged steps are tethered and ripped.
The undone are reality and perception.
Would morning be night?
Black or white?
Onward into more imagination than what can be provided.
Mindful thoughts and small actions are buried.
Deep swollen concrete and steel pulsate veins.
Screaming has no ears.
If only to listen.
Only to hear.
Can you hear me?
See me in here, can you see?
And the rotting.
Ohhh… the rottenness.
The rotting began years ago,… and yet what remains is breathing, walking.
Walking barely, but non the less… walking.
Slightly staggering corner to corner.
At this junction I found myself believing in artwork.
I discovered light,.. or rather, connecting sides, a meeting of two ends.
My skin could become part of this brick hole.
At this crossroads two have time with me, I am my corner.
And I have writing walls against my skull in here.
Chained down to my bones are razor wire fences depleting my wishes.
I have nightly scribbling parties with barely a sliver of night sky dancing of my skin.
A mere glimpse of moonlight has blessed me and gave me pleasure.
Me…only me.
But if for a moment I become away from here, everything except time will sink back into my captive decline and I’ll be back here in my hole.

chadwick

chadwick wrote:

Signed,
Pitiful rambling mess

These walls need to speak to me, if only,.. momentarily.
Not much natural light spreads itself in here.
So confining, air stale.
Servant to the darkness of no escape.
Movement in here is in small,.. doses.
Shuffling caged steps are tethered and ripped.
The undone are reality and perception.
Would morning be night?
Black or white?
Onward into more imagination than what can be provided.
Mindful thoughts and small actions are buried.
Deep swollen concrete and steel pulsate veins.
Screaming has no ears.
If only to listen.
Only to hear.
Can you hear me?
See me in here, can you see?
And the rotting.
Ohhh… the rottenness.
The rotting began years ago,… and yet what remains is breathing, walking.
Walking barely, but non the less… walking.
Slightly staggering corner to corner.
At this junction I found myself believing in artwork.
I discovered light,.. or rather, connecting sides, a meeting of two ends.
My skin could become part of this brick hole.
At this crossroads two have time with me, I am my corner.
And I have writing walls against my skull in here.
Chained down to my bones are razor wire fences depleting my wishes.
I have nightly scribbling parties with barely a sliver of night sky dancing of my skin.
A mere glimpse of moonlight has blessed me and gave me pleasure.
Me…only me.
But if for a moment I become away from here, everything except time will sink back into my captive decline and I’ll be back here in my hole.

Signed,
Pitiful rambling mess

These walls need to speak to me, if only momentarily.
Not much natural light spreads itself in here.
So confining, air stale.
Servant to the darkness of no escape.
Movement in here is in small,.. doses.
Shuffling caged steps are tethered and ripped.
The undone are reality and perception.
Would morning be night?
Black or white?
Onward into more imagination than what can be provided.
Mindful thoughts and small actions are buried.
Deep swollen concrete and steel pulsate veins.
Screaming has no ears.
If only to listen.
Only to hear.
Can you hear me?
See me in here, can you see?
And the rotting.
Ohhh… the rottenness.
The rotting began years ago,… and yet what remains are breathing, walking.
Walking barely but non the less… walking.
Slightly staggering, corner to corner.
At this junction I found myself believing in artwork.
I discovered darkness,.. or rather, connecting sides, a meeting of two ends.
My skin could become part of this brick hole.
At this crossroads two have time with me, I am my corner.
And I have writing walls against my skull in here.
Chained down to my bones are razor wire fences depleting my wishes.
I have nightly scribbling parties with barely a sliver of night sky dancing on my skin.
A mere glimpse of moonlight has blessed me and gave me pleasure.
Me…only me.
But if for a moment I become away from here, everything except time will sink back into my decline and I’ll be back here in my hole.

yellowbird

chadwick wrote:

I have nightly scribbling parties with barely a sliver of night sky dancing of my skin.

i like this line best

yellowbird

yellowbird wrote:

i like this line best

well, the edited version (on my skin), of course