My 15 Year Old Self Would Have Thought This Was Totally Bitchin’

Fair warning: He also would have thought this was totally bitching, too.

In the interests of trying out new stuff, I’m tossing this bit of doggerel up on my site on an off day pretty much just for the hell of it. If people like it, great.

If not, I’ll totally pretend it doesn’t hurt my feelings at all.

The Warrior Prosaic

Sweat flows out of him as
The air forces its way in, displacing
The moisture from his body and
The fucking phone shrills
Indians chattering, begging for his help set his blood
Ablaze.
Alone is where he lives and
He never wants to be alone because
There is no one to fight but himself
No one to wrestle with
No one to share triumphs
But not these goddamned Indians
With their petty problems with access
They can’t excel. They have no words.
None he can understand without struggle so his blood
Boils.
He grinds out the solution to their
Little tragedies and is left alone again
To stare at a page
To jab at letters before him
To destroy that bleak whiteness
He is a warrior and he feels a warrior’s pain
Each time a symbol is created he feels his blood
Sing
Through knuckles peeled raw by his anger
Taken out on the skin of an animal long dead
At the behest of his sensei
The curling and uncurling of fingers now cracks the dried blood
And punishes him with pain
Even as he tries to purge it
With words. Lurid prose
Chopped up here and there to form
A jagged edge. Making a verse to set him free
And the shattered glass points are all dotted with blood
From the self inflicted slash across his soul
He fights his hardest because he’s already lost
He runs his fastest because it gives him rest
He argues with phantoms
And his only principles are uncertain
He knows where he has been
But didn’t know where he was going then
Now he has direction but no inkling
Of where he is
Strange spinning up, down, and charm all in his blood
Pumping
Through a broken heart
That shudders with quantum beats
As his love is probabilistic
He keeps it in a box, hidden away
Unsure if it is alive or dead and afraid
To look and set its state
Not that it matters, as it changes
With each spasm, each battle, each eager charge of blood
Surging
So he forges his jagged blade
Of minced language
And punctuates the points of pretentious pap with blood
Until
Even he can’t stand it any more.