Thursday, July 14, 2005

Look at Me

Look at me. This is who I am. My eyes are a devil's workshop. Stare me in the hand. Maybe you'll finally see how right I was all along. This is not treatable. This is not a cry for help, or mercy. This is just desperation to be understood. My whole life hurts me; there's nothing it won't touch, and nothing it touches survives. I'm weary and at my wit's end. Stare me in the hand, and maybe you'll find a bit of me. Prester Bane tells me to look beautiful, but all I see is ugly; he has no face, and this evil in my hand has no name. Listen for a while, and you just might hear him beckoning; don't listen too long, or you'll hear too much.


prester said...

I have a face, but I wear a mask, too. Take a look at the whole product: post, picture, commentary. This is war. There are no heroes or villains, just memories that I change every day to suit my fancy. On this Midnight, I fancy deliberately. Maybe a picture is worth a thousand words, or perhaps only five: A Monster From Deep Water.

Patmos said...

Thy hand is my mind, cut, wounded, and it causes me great pain. The words that I refuse to enter my heart they bounce back and forth like a ball with a chain. With every pass, they bruise much more and cut even deeper. I sit in silence thinking of how I might let them out, yet they bury themselves to only return in the night. I toss, I turn, I moan in my sleeping hours, I reach for that pill, so that these voices will sleep, yet I only find when voices sleep they only dream. Their dreams awaken my sleep and find their way into my rest, their they bring the chain and rattle it again, now I awaken to only find I have not slept.