I look to the sky with haste,
why has thou forsaken me,
in my time of need?
Every inch of me screams to be heard,
every centimetre to be held close.
The raw aching state of my soft flesh cuts into my plans,
wreaking havoc on a once-perfectly addled mind,
states of being which soared with creativity,
more and more, until even I couldn’t believe
what avant-garde moments were coming
from me.
I call and call without triumph,
your name and understanding I beg for,
but there is none,
only self-serving fervour and tirades,
enough of them,
your silence speaks more than I could ask for.
Deliverance, none is forthcoming,
what is there to hope for when
some simply want to annihilate that which is
all around them,
a petty call for fury,
a disagreeable despot,
despicable I shall call actions,
but isn’t it enough to hold certain hands,
mine is now I don’t care at all to be
possessed by them.
Too much inertia to be absorbed,
belligerence and insolence
developing,
swelling,
with ease,
I discard ill feelings
from the lot of them.
Copyright © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
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