They ask why I write
words of the soiled soul
not aloud mind you now
just to quietly to themselves.
The sharing is my remedy
lancing of the infection spread
from the heart to the soul
seeking to steal that most good.
From this wish to spectacle
no longer hidden behind the world
constructed for purpose sake
while I slowly decompose.
I’m not waiting for the pills
to remedy self imposed
when pain I can instead express
in ink spilled with mere words
I’ll not receive vain rewards
for this self treatment moving out
weary baggage of a thousand nights
wishing for the days to pass on by.
No witty repertoire to garnish fame
as fleeting as it may be
when the greatest show I long to show
is the ending of all you see.
This is why I write my life
exhibition of written mutilation
(that’s how it sometimes feels)
expressing words to live again.
While the knife moves to lance
just know my friend of common vein
wondering if I’ve caught your words
you’re not alone if this is same.
© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160902.