Thursday, June 17, 2010

The rush of blood
Pumping into my head
Makes me feel good.
The scratching grows
on the stupid marks
on the wall
Until they start to grow red
from the blood oozing out
of the frayed end of my fingers.


I throw a laugh
A shrill, empty one
at generally nothing
I know soon I'll cry
and then the steak knife
will curve the mark
at a place still uncorrupted
with the scar tissue
from previous wounds.


My pills all lie
mixed with my weed
In a corner of my bed
Where Megan Fox often sits
smoking a Marlboro
And sipping my Johnny Walker
The one I used
To wash down the sleeping pills
Two months ago.


The shadow never goes
and the sleep never comes
Even as the nightmares drag on;
I have a wash basin
Filled with tissues
Soaked in my blood
That I burn every midnight
Am I alive? Am I dead?
Am I the undead? Am I Insane?

1 comment:

  1. Good one Sagnik. The graphic descriptions almost make it feel like a well-made movie scene.
    Every detail merges into a single feeling, of deep-rooted frustration. For me, this is what makes the poem so emphatic and powerful.

    ReplyDelete