A poem about being a panicky melancholic. |
I have only just begun But have already failed By not succeeding In my first attempt The illuminated streaks Like neon mascara, Run across closed lids. Scientifically they're afterimage, But represent more Than complementary colors. The chaos they contain Attains perfection in reflection, But details fail to be so blunt And are left to one's imagination. The impossibility to understand Is the tissue of my skin But emotions are raw And that I comprehend Internal Panic, so potently pithy Scores my soul scathingly clean, Vaporizing belief like Festering germs, Leaving blisters on my heart. Such domesticity found in a wildcat Hibernation, aestivation. It lies dormant Writhing in wait for failure. The impossibility to understand Is the layer underneath, But what and how I feel Is just whats my belief. I long for my white soldiers To snap it's brutal vice, But when immunity is an aching And panic becomes the lungs, I don't breathe Although Jesus is my inbetween Failure flies And Peter cries, And it's then that I regress The impossibilty to understand Is the reason below the fear But the only thing I recognize, Is the hollow, raw emotions. |