Blood Rushing to My Head

Do I think about the blood rushing to my

head?

the damp places, and the scarred ways of

my thinking

the vines twisted inside disguised as veins

inside my flesh

Can I quiet the disheveled sentences inside

that cannot speak?

the silence that screams,

yearning for the years that passed,

the lost utterances of an unlived childhood,

the tender way my mother smiled,

and the garden hose in my father’s grasp

watering grass that would soon die

do not turn around for the moment soon

passes

live with your eyes pried open

lost music throbs inside my heart an

eternity

those lyrics that speak pain so well,

and the verses of scripture imprinted in

the thoughts

of premature sins,

the leather of the sofa, and the young soft

voice of my bipolar child

sitting cross legged on the carpet

watching the Passion of Christ

There is an intense wound in the world,

sleeping and silent in its slumber pricks

us subtly like sewing needles,

no reason,

there is a dagger that scrapes through the

landscape of the earth

I would not trade my self-injurious ways

for mantras that do not work,

an attitude of self-absorbency runs

through a river of deceit 

that is beautiful,

the ways of Satan entice, wall street and

greed and materialistic gain

and all the gold of past ancient

civilizations,

a winning suit woven with Italian

threads, 

and the handsome skin of Tom Cruise,

the Paparazzi window through which I

cannot see truth from

My soul is a world, 

a discreet solipsism,

a brief agony,

intangible piece of forbidden fruit 

I razed my teeth through

and the worm in the center that eats

away

at us all, 

does not grow us a conscience? 

the homeless grow colder 

making their makeshift fires out of old

newspapers,

the weeping of expatriates, the homeless

men without 

countries, weeping in winter through the frost that

forms

beneath bare feet, looking through trash

for plastics

and empty soda and beer cans,

I want to pull them all to my chest,

and tell them to live inside the scars,

wouldn’t that solve a lot?

if people actually cared about others,

and if humanity weren’t just a polite

gesture?

(Taken from the book The Girl and Other Poems by Matty B. Duran for sale on Amazon.com)