November ~ William Pauley III

Everything is either dead or dying.

My first thought today.

You and I, we are all dying.

Our unborn child, with every passing day, is dying.

The trees, the leaves, the Earth.

We are all dying.

We are all dying.

 

I think of this at 6 AM

Sitting in an otherwise empty bathtub,

Steaming hot water rains from above

Staring at the drain

Wondering where life has gone.

I am getting weaker.

Twenty-four years old.

I am getting weaker.

 

Bones empty, but full of rage.

An unstable design.

Brain threadbare.

I feel an explosion within.

Strength of a thousand men and

A flood of white light flows

through my veins and tingles

at my fingertips.

 

Thoughts of violence.

Growing my fingernails long and

Sharpening them to points

So I can pluck out the eyeballs of

anyone foolish enough to come near.

I feel unsure exactly who the enemy is

and what it is that he wants with me.

 

I want to kill it.

I want to feel free.

In mind.

In body.

In spirit.

I want to release this white light

To every mind.

To every crowd.

To fill them all with my every thought

                                       every hate

                                       every disgust I have ever felt for this world.

 

I feel the need to bleed out my heart

Over the reels of celluloid flickering

From above.

Wanting to share what the Devil

has shared with me with every

living soul on God’s

green Earth.

 

I let the water pool in my coupled hands,

staring

again

blankly.

 

My mind is somewhere else.

In the color of your eyes.

In the mirror on the wall.

In complete darkness.

 

I must admit.

I have a fear

of falling out of this poetic oblivion.

I have a fear

of never finding the words.

With this tongue.

With these hands.

With these broken fingers.

 

Rivers of silver and bone may run from my mouth,

But if the words ever left me

I would be an empty man.

 

When will be the hour that the water runs cold?