Wits end

I am made of cardboard and shadows
Living in a dark house.
I sit chewing on the light thinking about the
Dog packs of clouds circling overhead,
I poke at them through a solitary window,
Waving a stick, blinded wood;
Intolerable words enter my head like a corkscrew.

I made a fire and burned letters— tired of a read.
I am subtle of a hate for age,
Dull arthritic fingers in a sag, cringe in a write.
Touch a paper now, rip it like a bag,
Slowly, slowly with dead eyes.
Toss it in cellar, crippled walls; flaking like a dumb fish.
Crumpled fear, strangled by its wiry hands.

I dream of a love, it consoles me, a wish and that wish
She were still alive, black gap on a lip.
When she passed, her body was carved in pain,
Her screams dyeing hospital air.
Nurses with bright needles pumping a vein,
She lay blankly as white walls;
One cry as I stumbled from a life.

I walk around with a stuffed expression,
I made it myself, wriggling worms in a mouth.
This marrowed thinking, small like a nostril
Breathing the bowels of a rage.
My small white soul is wilting lettuce;
Limbs, limbs grabbing for hope.
I have a choice, wrinkle in silence, or touch a life.

Copyright © 09/09/18 lance sheridan®

At wits end

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29 comments on “Wits end

  1. barryh says:

    You touched me. Powerful.

  2. Powerful words.

    Check my latest blog post here; 💗
    butterfliesandboundaries.wordpress.com/2018/09/09/i-made-fajitas/

  3. Incredible imagery. Most excellent.

  4. You have amazing empathy, Lance.

  5. Thank you so very much, Anna! You greatly inspire!

  6. almerighi says:

    Sono fatto di cartone e ombre
    Vivendo in una casa buia.
    Mi siedo masticando la luce pensando ai
    pacchi di nuvole del Cane che volteggiano sopra la testa,
    li colpisco attraverso una finestra solitaria,
    agitando un bastone, legno accecato;
    Parole intollerabili entrano nella mia testa come un cavatappi.

    Feci un fuoco e bruciai lettere, stanco di leggere.
    Sono sottile di un odio per l’età,
    dita artritiche sorde in un abbassamento, rabbrividire in una scrittura.
    Tocca un foglio ora, strappalo come una borsa,
    lentamente, lentamente con gli occhi morti.
    Lancialo in cantina, muri storpi; sfaldarsi come un pesce stupido.
    Paura accartocciata, strangolata dalle sue mani robuste.

    Sogno un amore, mi consola, un desiderio e quel desiderio.
    Lei era ancora viva, un buco nero su un labbro.
    Quando passò, il suo corpo fu scolpito dal dolore, le
    sue grida tingevano l’aria dell’ospedale.
    Infermieri con aghi luminosi che pompavano una vena,
    lei giaceva vuota come pareti bianche;
    Un pianto quando sono inciampato da una vita.

    Cammino con un’espressione imbottita, l’
    ho fatto io stesso, contorcendo i vermi in bocca.
    Questo pensiero marcio, piccolo come una narice che
    respira le viscere di una rabbia.
    La mia piccola anima bianca è una lattuga appassita;
    Arti, arti che afferrano per la speranza.
    Ho una scelta, ruga in silenzio o tocco una vita.

    greetings from Italy!

  7. Barbara Kasey Smith says:

    Great! Barb:)

  8. thotpurge says:

    Beautiful writing Lance.Thanks for visiting my site and the follow. I look forward to reading more of your work.

  9. Fantastic. Thanks for sharing

  10. Lona Gynt says:

    Touching a life, suffering then subsumed to a web of meaning. This poem is a heroic epic etched out in a lonely corner, our Ulysses about to embark, or actually turning outward homeward. The lives we touch are our true homes. Unbelievable suffering, surprise ending. Frankl’s book in focused miniature. I feel pain in these poems, the dark out of the flood, but that small surprise… it baptizes

  11. I read this again. It’s stunningly beautiful

  12. ortensia says:

    Very touching and extremely powerful!

  13. Touching life is definitely a better choice than wrinkling in silence!

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