Losing autonomy and independence every day
The clock ticks 9, and the jarring feeling envelopes
I am losing my sanity every passing day
Shhh! He is coming, Maybe today a different arc that will dazzle in the spaces, Today the love won’t obliterate or repudiate,
Today the skins curl up, and bones twist like a loose tale with all ends ending in splits, no tightening joints, everything can happen.
Run, the priest says, Run! Run! Run! All of them will come and claw their hearts out, the skins are torn into shreds.
It is how I am trapped in four walls of home, not knowing, not understanding, the rage of a whimsically fanatic scamster,
That scammed my heart in varying intervals, no matter the clock ticks in noon or afternoon, all ends meet in my skin turning red, bulging in blood,
Sometimes blue and grasp the timeless bird that roams in cataclysm and loves to be, be in the the circle of grotesque predation,
All lurking voices eye her, but then the tiger comes as he comes, as the cheetah turns, he churns, The tiger jumps and swaps his claw across,
Prey’s faces bleed profusely, in a pool of blood, draining fatty remains of its being and body!
Alas, the nocturnal nebula haze his mind frontiers in the courtyards of the palace, as an offering to the Goddess I lay in armed distress. Hands tied in the back.
Legs buried in a jute sack. Face gutted by the neck plate trapping both ends and as the tiger goes for the kill grabbing by its neck, all worms flee the intestines and eat from the inside.
The executor in the abattoir toil sees my sinking pits and hands ready to be amputated, only if I was that lucky.
The screams and runs for life are always seemingly pleasurable for the psychopath who willingly becomes a sociopath, all eyes never gaze on me.
For what to gaze when the nearer ilk does all that an enemy does, kill the being less and more, the pain matters, for the killing ends suffering.
From stomped, beaten, broken and forgotten, laying and curling behind the sunset tub, I lay in my kingdoms of twisted monarchs all mad like the mad king,
The dragons fly above in abode and all lay in unsinking pits, feeding on man of all ages, till everything turns to ask hashed in cosmic dust,
Earth science is made with the suffering of species, but the weaker voice is the beating drum for everyone alike. No matter who,
If they can, they will kick and call, and trample your heart grabbing it out of your body and laying it atop the pole in the palace's terrace about to be gushed by the wild tempest.
Cosmic Context: This is a jarring fictionalized poetry about a lover men/or woman, whichever gender you may feel comfortable to imagine suffers from complex PTSD also known as permanent PTSD. This is a state where some experiences are so deeply entangled in your subconscious that it haunts you in every stage of life. Bordering on schizophrenia, complex PTSD sufferers reimagine the haunting episode, event, or phase of their lives again and again until they can calm their systems, leading to momentary breakdowns. In this poetic imagery and reflection, the person suffering reimagines their periods of wild domestic abuse (in the case of women) and parental abuse as a child (in the case of men).
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