I don't mean to capitalize on anyone's tragedy. This poem that I wrote long ago as an experimental narrative, doesn't even talk about him, the immortal inspiration but I've just mustered enough courage to share the picture that paints the dark side of an envious life and it doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of all the pain and emptiness one could possibly experience.
Razors in his fingers and sitting on a tool,
Drowned in liquor, swimming in its pool.
He exists. He is real.
No; he ain’t no survivor,
No prisoner, no war torn enemy.
He’s had life full of devices
Of rich scents and cents that buy chauffeurs and sedans.
Where is the driver?
Indulged in self-mockery.
Smirks outline the clouds of smoke.
Chemicals burn his lungs, turn on the dope.
Drop down the vacancies, kill them with fire;
Blast the emptiness with wild desire.
Throw away the gold, diamond.
Chase the sapphire.
These are jewels clustering his arm that hire
A pretty sleek waist and neck: gulp down fears and senses in a single beat, strip down the sleeves and the heck.
He bolts up the locks, peeps out to the outsiders.
Abuses crash down the window-pane. No broken legs.
Broken admirers.
“How good is this blood to me?” He screams.
“Ruin it. Why should I?” He breathes
In the toxic
And escapes, thus, the monotonic.
Switch the scenes within a blink, a click…
None pause as the hands tick.
I hope this poem gave you something to think about. And if you want to stay just a little bit longer with it, the podcast for this is available here.
Kindly check it out or subscribe it for future updates and episodes. As usual, thank you for your time and attention. I hope this added some value to your life. And I pray you find courage to swim through all that befalls you ahead!
Komen