Useless

Useless

I feel useless. Was useless. Am.
But even the soldier and the farmer failed
before I.
And now slinked against the damp wall
of the basement I reflect,
not bothering to board the single window
that leaks with the soft red rays of a grievous sun.

Tearing the pages from a child’s pink journal
I write these words. Even in the end
I carried my pens. Useless they said.

Oh! These mortal coils
That wrap around me like intestines.
This was easy being pre-torn apart.
I do not whimper much
as I try not to trip over my innards
or slip in the mixture of blood
of all who I knew on the hardwood floors.

Then moaning in pain,
with just a hint of pleasure,
I try to ignore my veins as they green
a path to my heart
and my skin as it grays. This is my ars poetica
the fever whispers.

Oh! If only the dead could read,
but they’re just hungry.
They could fill both their hollow legs
my grandma would say before she sunk
her teeth into that baby.
Is there something poetic in that?

No! But it must be for now.
And I wonder how the tender parts
Of me might taste in dipping
sauces. Control yourself, my delusion
says as I spit out my favorite tooth
and smile at the banging door.

Come, come, release me before I turn
all the way before I crawl through litter
-ed streets, my head swinging
on a thread that just won’t give
as I hunt,
more lethal as a predatory mutilation.

I scream the dinner bell call
and all the starving children barge right through.

“Don’t worry,
there’s enough for everyone.”
But as the bilious guests arrive
I do start to worry,
just like last thanksgiving.
I’m not prepared:

I look down before the first succulent bite
and see I have written nothing at all,
but painted unconsciously instead.
It’s kind of pretty I think
and I mumble a useless prayer,
Like an old family recipe.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/4lbkxk/this_brand_new_sound/d3ojbbd

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/4l9k2z/cocreator/d3ojqvf