For days I’ve said only
half of what I did and didn’t want to say,
& did all that I do every day:
tried to escape.
I don’t know what I’m doing anymore
& escape makes such a mess on the floor.
Maybe one day I’ll make a decision
I won’t regret again
always the same,
always failing to stand up to myself
to hide from the scaring knowledge
that all things are pretence
yet everything is true…
but I’m lying to you
I have no pain
just a feeling of constant nausea
& all the talk of trying to escape
is just a way
to plead for sympathy;
Is my story more exciting than yours?
Or did you get those scars in a bloodier war?
The pen can be mightier than the sword,
but guns would kill us all.
If only you could summon up the balls,
to stain the floor with your bullet-ridden corpse
vomit away your soul
say goodbye with the sound of broken bones
with a leap into the unknown.
Would your mind change before hitting the ground?
Or would you leave with a taste of regret?
The war started before you were ready,
the fighting will fall silent without you knowing,
you weren’t really ready for
anything at all.
Tattered feathers matted with carrion,
poisonous blood & a gland beneath the
containing venom waiting to be sprayed
into the face of innocent creatures:
a hideous specimen, we should not
refrain from judgment; look & see
what it really is:
Let it die unmourned, like morning worms
without the worth;
nothing can be birthed from this thing.
Watch it’s shaking skull cage, let the taloned
brain starve in it’s rage & let the last blood –
drop of it’s heart fall from self-inflicted
wounds into the dark,
…& stop reading:
*The Shrike Sylvia Plath