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Physiological Battle Scars Of A Woman
| Open Poetry #34 |
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Physiological Battle Scars Of A Woman |
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Hallucination Member
since 2001-03-18
Posts 419 |
“Physiological Battle Scars Of A Woman” As a weave of filthy air, rises from the cracks between the ageing floor. A young woman, dressed in white soaked bed sheets, rolls a cigarette In-between, her constant writing and awful nightmares. She roughly opens the pealed, shattered window wide. Tip-toe’s over to the fading windowpane, and then throws herself across it, in a dangerously manner. She looks up, at the thousands of eyes. Staring back at her, from the huge black curtain. “STOP SPYING ON ME.” She screams. In a dry, nervous voice. Where after she pitches a rusty, metal ashtray at them. Slowly, her anxiety attack wears off. And she falls back into, her “rocking chair” motion again. She puts her head in her thin, weak hands. Tiny drops pf salt, appears from between her fingers. They start to crawl down her hands, one by one, they fall to the floor. It echoes, throughout the entire house. From the mouth of the walls, to the ears of the sealing. She can barely, reach for her painkillers. Fishing around in the jar, with her fingers. She comes to the traumatic conclusion, It’s empty. She gives a sudden “GASP!!!” Then panics. Her lungs are declining to breathe. With fear, beaming from her eyes. She rips the desk drear open, in search of her brown, paper bag. “It’s not there.” She thinks out loud. In a frenzy, the closet gets the same, brutal treatment. She’s tossing lingerie, shoes, dresses. Even clothes which have never before, seen the light of day. Gets flipped, shrugged, followed by fierily examination. But nothing. Her heart starts to beat faster. She begins to sweat. Her fingers feel tingly. Her feet has gone numb. She begins to feel a little dizzy. Her throat feels swollen. While her eyes, are flying around in her head. She crawls into a dark corner, where she crumps, like a scarred ally kitten. Her body have begun, to react like a junkies. When it haven’t had a fix, in a long while. Voices in her head, are arguing so loud, she’s getting headaches. “The wicket tongue, slays the sharpest word.” She whispers, again and again. She fumbles down, the old, wooden stair. On her way to the kitchen. She determinately, pulls out the upper drear. Gently picks up a butcher knife, with her shaky right hand. Wanting to cut her left writs, and leave herself to die. But there on the table, lays a piece of greyish, recycling paper. And a number two pensile. “ I cannot keep existing, in this form. Cannot keep living, breathing in this never ending sandstorm. I can’t see where I’ve been, or where I’m going. Tired of waking up, with the woman, whose ageing in body, but not in mind. I’ve lost each fight, each trail of life. Never been excepted, elected. Though I voted to the edge of insanity. Now, each morning, when my dusty, red curtains are pulled up- The window promotes, the same painted picture. A canvas, full of nothingness. Made with cruel, terrifying manners. Feel like a flower, which can’t penetrate the concrete. No matter how hard I try, I’m fading away, without ever having been…” |
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| © Copyright 2004 Brian Eggertsen - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Huan Yi Member Ascendant
since 2004-10-12
Posts 6688Waukegan |
http://www.breakoutofthebox.com/depression.htm |
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