Insurgents & Demons

If it weren’t for you

O-Great-Poetic-One,

I’d be dead.

Dead!

Instead,

I brutally murder

my self in thoughts

several times a day,

churning over the past,

the future & my

flawed imperfections.

I pander to worms &

the soup of blood

& bone,

till I can’t stand

it any more

&/or they take me

away.

Torture temporarily appeases

the masochistic God

who takes down

mental notes

& I transform parables

into atheism

in order to re-line

my keloid brain.

She is brazen.

My alter-ego

tempts me to desire

a public beheading /

a martyr’s death

by diatribe & by

my inner monologue.

What poppycock!

Disbelief betrays

her ever-widening circle of friends,

bringing her closer

to the edge, where that fabled Fool

steps out into no-man’s land,

off that ledge of no return.

However,

I choose to die

in stanza’s, paraphrasing

my life into mythical metaphor’s

that transform those insurgents &

demons into words,

trying to leave behind

another seedless watermelon

Neruda would be proud!

*

The truth is,

I need someone

to love me

but Mr Young said it better,

‘it doesn’t mean that much to me, to mean that much to you’.

Is it any wonder

to want to die?

Is it any wonder

I’m still alive?

© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

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