Update on Poetry Slam Fiasco — Eight hours of disturbed sleep had passed since my first disastrous attempt (Cracked) at writing something for the slam, and the bitter aftertaste still hadn’t left my mouth. Ugh. Except for it was now the day of the slam, and while everyone else had finished writing their poems and moved on to figuring out how to recite them, there I was, trying to claw my way out of a panic attack.
I needed to get something done, and fast, if I wasn’t to make a complete moron of myself that evening. So I searched far and wide for something, anything even vaguely reminiscent of inspiration. But after nearly ripping my brain to scraps trying to find something to write about, I crashed down on my bed in a bout of grief, crying imaginary tears and nearing the give-up phase. First I felt exhaustion. Then boredom. Then numbness.
Ah, but that last sensation (or a lack thereof) hit me like a bulldozer. Finally. So I decided to write about numbness itself, and explore detachment, loss of emotion, and suicide. Now I don’t know how well that came through, but when I was finally done, I was left with nearly two hundred words’ worth of pseudo-epic bullshit that sounded like something I could recite at the slam. So I did. Ha.
Imprisoned in this crippled realm,
Bound and gagged, collapsing, numb;
Paralyzed by wasted time,
No past, no future left to climb.
The skies are gray, my spirit worn;
Day and night, a contrast torn.
Screeching, howling wounds agape;
End this curse, let me escape.
Twisted fingers, a frozen lock,
Undying time, eternal shock;
There is no life, there is no pain,
Fire and ice are all the same.
Shattered eyes, a fraying soul,
What is this place, so stoned and cold?
Strangled thoughts, it’s time to leave;
There’s nothing left here to believe.
Claws of meat and blades of steel,
The wolves dive in for their last meal;
My flesh has wept from chasms deep,
Eager for this twilight sleep.
By eventide my world has bent,
Into my depths I make descent;
And now at last I breathe again,
There is no why, there is no when.
Crimson anguish left behind,
What do I seek? What shall I find?
I race into the morning wind,
To skies azure and clouds aglint.
Forever here, I thus reside,
Screaming, broken tears have dried.
Thank you, dear, beloved knives,
For it’s in death that my life thrives.