He
The poem "He" is about a very confusing time in my life - a time when I didn't know whether or not I actually wanted to go on living. Suicide is a known cry for help. I did need help. However, if you hooked me to a polygraph right after this event, you would believe that I wanted to cease living. Addiction fucks with your mind as much as your body. I was so confused at some points that the noise in my head was just too much. I was sad. And lonely. And hungry. And sick. I wrote this slam poem because I didn't know how else to tell the story at the time.
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He once held a blade to his wrist and attempted to splatter paint his vision in crimson burgundy…
He was tired of crying inside,
And denying His lies,
And,
He was fed up,
With this,
World caved in,
Iced with sin,
Where His manifested projections,
Were the world’s smallest violin,
Playing to an audience of insecurities…
But deep behind His
Femurs of fervor,
Inside rib cages of organs raped of courage,
Wept hidden tears
Of persevered
Guilt…
When did this all get so hard?
When did laughter
Become a challenge?
A sign of danger?
A doubt?
A mask to disguise the isolated island He wore so tightly under hand-me-down clothes,
That oxygen could hardly let His brain
Process a thought,
He,
Never reached His moment of clarity,
Where the images tattooed inside
Of His eyelids,
Turned to mirrors,
So He could see
His ringing thoughts,
So He could fill aspirations
With a simple concepts,
Like stop, no and don't…
Ambitions of idealism,
Faded to dreams of His own coffin,
His own funeral
With no tears,
And that light at the end of the tunnel,
Disappeared
To a
Less clear sphere
Of ice,
And caged birds…
What if He had listened?
And when He was guided,
Paid attention,
What if that first injection
Hadn’t revealed concealed
Perfection,
And opened false trap doors
Disguised as stairways to heaven,
On earth…
Passion,
Cried from His pores,
But the louder the screams,
The less people heard,
And His knowledge
Seemed only absurd,
And spoken word,
Was still only a sperm
That had not yet reached the womb of His mind,
So though He,
Unknowingly,
Conceived many future poems,
Expression was a lifeless puppet
With missing strings…
He was the blood of forgotten soldiers,
The sweat of fear
And tears of joy
That resonate through war,
He wore,
Misdrawn swastikas and skulls on His sleeve
That His brain
Couldn’t rearrange
To form the hearts they intended to be,
He
Was dizzy…
Where did the child go,
Who now held a blade to his wrist
But at one time couldn’t fathom
Pulling a whisker from a kitten?
How had He become
So small to His dreams
That He could drown in the puddles He once splashed in?
If life was full of hidden turns,
He went straight,
If life was about getting burned,
He was made of slate,
If life was about having concern,
He was hatched from hate,
And so irate
At the fate
He placed
On His plate
Of indecision,
That He simply turned His back,
And when He about faced
That hundred-eighty degrees,
With so much pain
He couldn’t even drop to His knees,
He
Was unpleased,
With that sight in the mirror
With that monster who looked at Him
A little clearer,
And see the blade was still to His wrist
The blade was to His wrist,
And intentions were scarlet,
Visions of evil smashed hope,
Like earthquakes smash cities,
And a pity-filled attempt
Was in delivery,
When an angel tapped His shoulder
And He,
Filled with confusion,
He,
Filled with the illusion
Of a better tomorrow,
He felt something.
He let images of caskets
Fade to dreams of dancing
See that angel told Him:
“You can just be…
You do not exist to live in the shadow of a legacy of anything,
You
Were placed here by design,
Part of a grand rhyme
Scheme
A being,
With individual passions and ideas
That create your own character,
You,
Can just be…”
And the simplicity,
Of the four word phrase
Compared to seven headed dragons
And five prong assassination attempts,
Shone like orange brilliance
Through the fog
And He
Broke down,
He,
Got on those weak knees,
Took those three fingers
That always pointed back at Him,
And closed them to a raised fist,
And like this,
He,
Stood,
He,
Believed,
He,
Fought,
And He,
Became,
Me…
He was tired of crying inside,
And denying His lies,
And,
He was fed up,
With this,
World caved in,
Iced with sin,
Where His manifested projections,
Were the world’s smallest violin,
Playing to an audience of insecurities…
But deep behind His
Femurs of fervor,
Inside rib cages of organs raped of courage,
Wept hidden tears
Of persevered
Guilt…
When did this all get so hard?
When did laughter
Become a challenge?
A sign of danger?
A doubt?
A mask to disguise the isolated island He wore so tightly under hand-me-down clothes,
That oxygen could hardly let His brain
Process a thought,
He,
Never reached His moment of clarity,
Where the images tattooed inside
Of His eyelids,
Turned to mirrors,
So He could see
His ringing thoughts,
So He could fill aspirations
With a simple concepts,
Like stop, no and don't…
Ambitions of idealism,
Faded to dreams of His own coffin,
His own funeral
With no tears,
And that light at the end of the tunnel,
Disappeared
To a
Less clear sphere
Of ice,
And caged birds…
What if He had listened?
And when He was guided,
Paid attention,
What if that first injection
Hadn’t revealed concealed
Perfection,
And opened false trap doors
Disguised as stairways to heaven,
On earth…
Passion,
Cried from His pores,
But the louder the screams,
The less people heard,
And His knowledge
Seemed only absurd,
And spoken word,
Was still only a sperm
That had not yet reached the womb of His mind,
So though He,
Unknowingly,
Conceived many future poems,
Expression was a lifeless puppet
With missing strings…
He was the blood of forgotten soldiers,
The sweat of fear
And tears of joy
That resonate through war,
He wore,
Misdrawn swastikas and skulls on His sleeve
That His brain
Couldn’t rearrange
To form the hearts they intended to be,
He
Was dizzy…
Where did the child go,
Who now held a blade to his wrist
But at one time couldn’t fathom
Pulling a whisker from a kitten?
How had He become
So small to His dreams
That He could drown in the puddles He once splashed in?
If life was full of hidden turns,
He went straight,
If life was about getting burned,
He was made of slate,
If life was about having concern,
He was hatched from hate,
And so irate
At the fate
He placed
On His plate
Of indecision,
That He simply turned His back,
And when He about faced
That hundred-eighty degrees,
With so much pain
He couldn’t even drop to His knees,
He
Was unpleased,
With that sight in the mirror
With that monster who looked at Him
A little clearer,
And see the blade was still to His wrist
The blade was to His wrist,
And intentions were scarlet,
Visions of evil smashed hope,
Like earthquakes smash cities,
And a pity-filled attempt
Was in delivery,
When an angel tapped His shoulder
And He,
Filled with confusion,
He,
Filled with the illusion
Of a better tomorrow,
He felt something.
He let images of caskets
Fade to dreams of dancing
See that angel told Him:
“You can just be…
You do not exist to live in the shadow of a legacy of anything,
You
Were placed here by design,
Part of a grand rhyme
Scheme
A being,
With individual passions and ideas
That create your own character,
You,
Can just be…”
And the simplicity,
Of the four word phrase
Compared to seven headed dragons
And five prong assassination attempts,
Shone like orange brilliance
Through the fog
And He
Broke down,
He,
Got on those weak knees,
Took those three fingers
That always pointed back at Him,
And closed them to a raised fist,
And like this,
He,
Stood,
He,
Believed,
He,
Fought,
And He,
Became,
Me…
Other recommended poems based on this one: DOPESICK | EMERGE | THE GOLDEN TICKET | STRENGTH
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