I decaffienated all of my hatred

now there’s no high to slitting a low vein;

a metaphor for uncontrolled words on paper.
Call it “Hate read.”
“Why, why, why?”
The pain is linked, like a chain.
I kept pulling at my t-shirt thread…
Bleeding from the eye of a hurricane,
 
I cauterizred the wounds,
by pursuing the good news of
dispensing with the old;
daze covered in mold.
It’s all relative how many relatives’ blood cells run cold.
You wouldn’t believe what I was told…
With this 20-something teen angst, I say thanks.
The nerve of me for having a nervous system in a suicidal town.
 
A breakdown into the pieces of me.
A puzzle cut into the shape of anxiety,
screaming for justice like Van Gogh.
A cinematic chase up the steeple.
I wish they would blow, half of these people.
 
On the skin, this raw, sick look,
orphaned and in pursuit of creative flight,
like a comic book…
In darkness dwells the light of my writers lamp.
An approved moral code stamped on my spine,
a scar that marks a line of time.
 
Lines of demarkation are carved on Cloud 9.
A mental vacation. 
I kick the hornet’s nest and the hive mind.
Intelligence that justifys life itself.
Why are we here if not to beat ignorance with Orion’s belt?
A horror-punk’ed up tribute to what it was I once felt.
Now….?
 
A blank slate,
thick to penetrate your eyes and ears!
Decapitate doubts and fears.
This is blood read –
pierce a hole with pen, and pull the thought right out of my head,
placed on the page.
Pace the rage.
 
Zen masterbation instead of being cuffed to a tramp
All about concentration, in this depraved camp.
Breaking my own bones that cause the cramp.
A paralyzed man who seeks to throw off his clan like a coat
so he can dance, dance, dance! 
That’s all she wrote.
 
 

– MICHAEL PHELAN O’TOOLE.

 

All written content © 2012, Michael Phelan O’Toole, All rights reserved.

 

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