black stone

the beauty of nothing is when you catch yourself
at a dead stop,
when your mind is completely out of phase with your body -
that is when you listen hard because their voices are clear.

i have mastered the unfortunate skill in becoming nothing,
non-existential like traffic hum we learn to block out,
the nothingness that drives a man crazy when he hears it all.

i don’t need this.
i don’t need much;
the shimmer at the dent of young eyes, that is all i need.

there is cotton in my mind, 
the purple sky chokes, holding back
the cold dribbles of what i feel,
its hues cushion me from nights that glare
like the peacock feathers hanging by the window
all-seeing and sure.

i am a lying cunt.

to pretend for years on end
that this lack of will to live in a world that has forgotten
to live with me
isn’t always there like backdrop 
is the biggest lie one can ever make.

to understand these black stones,
platonic to the currents that exhume the dirt of our minds 
is to know, want, need, see, feel, taste, smell, hear everything,
even when one has fallen from their grace.

can you take it all?

the air mocks my solitude,
crisp and loud in my breath
catching my surprise like loose scabs.
everything tastes like iron and 
wood,
like i am face down once again.

the sun is dead.
i am dead.
we are all dead.

i think about laughter and how it lies.
the cab drivers, shopkeepers, regular faces from a world i continuously lie to with my 
genuine smile.

it is an ugly sight when i realise
how many things a long-sleeved kaftan can hide
and the fall of hair onto the soft of
burning eyes.

i woke up today to the death of everyone.
the ground below my feet is treacherous, seeping poison
into my veins, like i am a dying plant.
my legs are numb and my insides purge out.

this isn’t a cry for help.

i watch the walls change colour upon
my static body, and i pretend
everything is timeless, like the rage of the sea.

the patterns form, 
an all-encompassing epiphany of a storm,
telling me i should’ve
done myself in better;
what was the point of it all 
if my death was walked in on
and i am still here forking away
at a bowl full of panic attacks
and lies?

the people who contemplate suicide 
are all in stagnant, angry pain.
and the ones who stay to live,
tired and tried with the knowledge that
the finality of a second time
will destroy the ones they love - again,
these ones are under
unbearable weight that come in
large, unforgiving waves.

can you take it all?

these dark tides rise to my feet
too many times for my liking
and i am starting to believe the reflections i see, 
afloat on the surface like black stones in the moonlight;
solid shadows.

one day i will forget who i am entirely,
and become one of them,
untouchable, immovable,
non-existent when the dark washes over.

i will be part of
every shadow cast, 
every storm,
every dusk and dawn,
every blackout,
every death,
every blink of the eye,
everywhere.

maybe then,

i can take it all.