Self-made Stigmata.

Don't ask, don't tell. Someone says random.

Encapsulated in a white tiled
prison cell. Acid throws itself against my
throat. I see the vomit splatter against the cold white
porcelain. I'm inventing illnesses for myself.

It's too bright in here, too pristine.
How I longed for darkness then!
I wanted to erase myself - my flaws- from the Earth.
I am a pencil sketch. Not exactly
existing but real enough to touch, to laugh at.

Mocking, I cannot stand the mocking birds that
flit ever fleetingly in the clear
spotless air. Such a stench of bleach.

Should I efface my façade?
I must rid myself of the bitter bile.

Subside, They cast such a
synthetic division between her and I.

The same, my twin. Our 'Siamese' shadows.
Yet, not here. Not here.

This hell is a lightning bolt. Sudden,
so sudden. So superficially supreme.

I'm so tired, yet I cannot sleep. The days
never end. They begin in spring and end in bleak
December. It gets worse from here.

Rejection. Her. How come?

She brings pain in her broken
vodka bottle. So blindingly bright.

I'm sinking into this sweltering
vortex of bone coloured squares.

Even hiding under the sink
doesn't stop those stupid beasts.

Sickness, an art. Again, some say I do
it exceptionally well. I do not agree.

I would let myself collapse and
surrender my soul just to taste
the blank banality of sleep.

I slide down onto my knees, my stomach
is still somersaulting. Such a silly thing, there is
nobody to watch its gymnastic display.

Of course; of course. I brought this on myself.
I would scream at my self-annihilation but who would
listen? Not I. Not I. I loathe my

unintelligible scramble of vocality. I wish
I could make you understand. A mile in my

spoilt and slightly-too-small shoes could
give you calluses. Yet, it might make you
less callous.

Perhaps. Maybe. Probably not.

I close my sleep-deprived eyes
and it's such a shoddy screen.

I see the bloody slipway of the
fine veins in a blaze of painful
yellow and scarlet. The same blinding light
sears like fresh salt in the tearduct.

I let my salt-laden spurts of stupid
self-pity tumble and mingle uncomfortably - like
debutantes at a stuff, upper class party - with
my nausea-personified.

I cannot feel my legs. They are so numb.
I'm abandoned, even by my own body.
So predictable.

Such a sordid sullen art this is!

Sickness, sickness! I did this to myself.
So, now? You ask what I did?
A pain-killer, a capsule of stardust
meant to numb my throbbing head.

typical, it turns on me
like a revolution. Full

one-eighty-degrees.

So hot, I'm sweating sanity.

*makes love to the poem*

You heard me. It's amazing beyond belief.

Isn’t it horrible how art can be such an anguish? That it can arise from such agony. Your poetry is art. Unfortunately for you, is it not?

Anyway, you do write poetry exceptionally well. I love your stile; the structure, flow and wording. Everything.
If I had one complain it would be the repetition of “end” in the eight stanza. Other than that; brilliant!

That is one of the most amazing poems I have ever read

bloody hell

fuckin WOW!

I really liked it. Good rhythm to it through and through!

Exquisite!

amazing,

I'm abandoned, even by my own body. = me.
[sorry.]

*claps* Is excellent

i really like it. its a very good one!!