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