The Design of Self Destruction in POETRY

Claws rake my back as if to climb my spine like a twisting poisonous vine. Enraptured in such paroxysmic tenacity it grows like a parasite feeding off the shortness of breath.

Anxiety, it stings to say… is my everyday; the dwelling of my subsistence; the walls, the floor and the air in my lungs. Pain receptors send messages to the dying pawns at war while I treat the wounded with the equivalence of useless referendum.

I try to remember a time of underappreciated luxury; mentally, physically, but not fiscally. It may have occurred on a day when crayons were my ink, but it pains me to think of a day not overcast with some sort of metaphorical jargon.

A blood spattered memory
Each and every single one
Unraveling the discord of past loves
Like the insatiable hunger of skeletal doves

I crept upon age; matured before my years… still on the seesaw after life purposely hopped off. A lesson learned in youth which has swayed my lies to truth.

A tumbleweed of human existence, dehydrated of all liquid warmth; my future lay arranged in rings from a gore stained pool.

Becoming less than I have ever been is a task only I am capable of. A true testament of the failure I bring; a harbinger of futility delivering reckless abandon in waves of artistic self denigration.

Accomplished in the one thing unrecognizable as a skill… miserably surviving a life unquenched and unfulfilled.

By: Jaye Eryk
Copyright ©2013

Last updated May 26, 2017