2 AM Poetry

We’re writing about real things
and we’re talking about sadness
and despair
and that hollow pit in your stomach that grows and grows and grows
till it feels like you might collapse in on yourself
till it feels like you’re a 2D person,
you are made of paper,
you are tearable
and thin
and quickly swept away by things
like rain
and wind
and the soft breathing of strangers
who have fallen asleep in your bed.
You are stretched
and your center
is a vortex
and a void
that sucks in everything within
its gravitational pull
yet somehow reveals only
yellow-tinged nothingness.
Your organs never see the light of day.
From birth to death
if all goes according to plan
your heart beats in
a wet black cavity
and all your blood
which makes it to the surface
which catches the sunlight
is expelled from your body
like the heretic
exiled from his place of birth,
its unpaved paths and thatched rooftops
fading in the sunset
as he takes all he can carry on his shoulders
and looks back, eyes filled with longing, just one last time.
And am I hoping for some sort of absolution
beyond that next hillside,
or the chance to be overtaken by
drugs or sex or strong drinks
instead of paralyzed by heavy eyelids
and heavy limbs
and a weighed-down mind
which operates on indifference
and thrives on the dispersion of emotion
except for the one that gnaws at your belly,
the very root of the evil
that cannot be numbed by
aloprams or oxetines,
that appears to sleep
but rears its ugly head like a mange-ridden lion
when it is least expected
and thought to have become myth
or dreaming
(or worst of all an elaborate lie)
that never existed at all.
Breathe in, breathe out,
exhale what is dark
and inhale what is good,
break free from your chains of suffering;
if only, bodhisattva,
things could be that simple.
I want to run like mule deer
and swim like sailfish
but I’ve never wished to fly
because all that emptiness between you and the ground
and the realization that world is so much bigger
than you ever dreamed
is nothing short of terrible.
Birds will fly and
I will run,
hooves stamping trails into pine needle forests
and broadleaf-strewn carpets
and the dust will swirl about my feet
and tree trunks will flash by
in dizzying shapes and colors as I move
too quickly to be caught by even my own thoughts
which seek to tie me down.

If only I keep running

they cannot tie me down.

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