Sewn

Can anyone hear me? Hello? Thought so. Talking into a deep and empty cradle of depression and anxiety. I say something and it just echoes back just as I said it; nothing to help me, just hollow words of shattered glass on my teared face. I try to stay calm on the outside but

on the inside I feel like driving a knife through my sewn heart. Ripped, mangled and sewed back

 

together like an old dish rag you have had for 15 years.

Kiss me, turn around and leave. Say you love me then slap me in the face. Apologize for it all then repeat. The endless cycle of life that I can not avoid. All I want is caress and embrace without judgement and devastation.

 

All the voices in my head are telling me to leave. Not insane voices but my conscious and unconscious thoughts that are usually conflicting but not are completely argumentative and silent. Repair the scars I shout over and over again. I pray and hold my arms close. Forgiveness and satisfaction. A windy rollercoaster of hell and all stops to get there in between. Deep, fiery

 

hell where satan shall at least call me his because The Divine rejected me. All the sins I have committed, a knife will be plunged into my sewn heart like the worthless dog I am. Blood with drip and drop onto the floor as I hold my wound, feeling death creep close. There is no pain but the feeling of released demons spraying from my blood.

 

Blackness released not to allow the light in but to let me finally reach peace. As I slip away into silence and somber.

Then a little voice come back. "Kill."

Thrusting the knife from my heart I stab a caliginous figure in the flesh of the face on the cheek.

 

Seeing the blood I lust for more. A gash into my thigh is what I unconsciously choose. Searing pain is rushed from leg to brain in a deep and satisfying sound of metal on the blade of my knife.

I can die now. In this dungeon or gore and corpses. I can embrace satan into my pierced and sewn heart and cry from the pain of fiery burns.

 

Imagination and revised envisions of thought are reimagined as I grasp into an abyss. Triggering relapse of bad thoughts flood in as satisfaction slips away. My head becomes flooded with a deep devastation of what has been and what will be and turns into the pitiful reminder of paralyzing anxiety, deep from threaded unconsciousness. Is this adrenaline making it where I

 

Cannot die? A low, deep, and fantasy voice should guide me where to go and what to do. Should I lie here and let it evade me or sorrow it what has been done? Must things slip in and out making lines and blurs in the dark? I shall lie here and let it become red as the stings slip away and suffocation takes over completely if it should just notice me here.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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