The Broken ArtistA Poem by R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe) A poem made of several pieces of writing, layered in rhymes and connected by words. Finally finished! No more need to edit. It's ready to be read. Hold me closer in the rain, touch my feelings, hear my pain, taste my tears and read the name of the person, I became, the tombed remains of a man murdered, a person martyred, the man who became a broken artist, spoken honest, insane vomit, writing on a world with full pages on it My lips parted birthed in a sonnet as I breathe in the malevolent talent of countless valiant talons scraping at the tomb sounding fond of emotional bonds in a song haunting the room The heavenly voices calling farther forward for me to push harder against the four walls of the morgue I was born in, gallons of bird baths fountains of blood sweat and tears, cold beers, and alters, paltry sculptures of pure emotion, written fear and things that are fit and dear to a caged artist, are outside waiting, the treatments started, the healing karma, I'm a word farmer, but underground there isn't a place around to write a poem down nothing to harvest I was their demon for seven years in the hardness of a world full of fear that could never really accept me, a snearing god neglecting how I’ve been dissected and expecting revering and perfection from me, without any protection, those who don’t fit in seemingly become the people's dream beast, their next feast, their needed monster, not wanted, nobody's love, no tears shed on it, a nightmare, no respect, so poison and punch me, hate me and shun me, never believing the words of the unwanted artist, regardless of truth, hatred, and the world that spawned this The world soars above me, below the floorboards you walk upon, I look up at the ceiling of a decrepit crypt, my time up there long gone, now I'm treated like devil's spawn thinking does justice even exist? Will my soul be fixed, will this tomb someday eclipse into a place I’ll miss when I pass away? These days I'm feeling like my resolves peeling, emotions mixed, revealing a scene full of meaning, my spirit kneeling praying to a god I no longer believe in, one that sat idle while my vitals went silent in the quiet violence, sealing up the meaning of existing, not living just resisting and persisting while my heart is missing so my head does the thinking, slowly sinking into the memories, filth I don’t want to see, a person I can no longer be, a world that doesn’t want me to be seen, as pages of poetry dry the tears of the forgotten artist, garnished punished, heart still pumping, blood still running, rotten body still humming a tune in a coffin of darkness, the remarkable hardness of living in a world where you aren't wanted Feeding believers the words of the Reaper, disdain cutting deeper inside the heartless body of the sleeping artist, missing the fondness of my childhood, a life lived before the knife shattered this battered cold body, leaving me trapped in an old lobby, the tomb I’ve been buried inside, the lies I turn into words, the learned burned lyrics, my sulfuric hobby Lighting my way through every day, before we have to fade away, no matter what the people say, how I live my day by day How the people play charades with souls and razor blades Fighting through my writing like lightning striking sighting frightened silence, quite an island of silent violent memories will be the breath of me, trying to be break free of my prison with the words I've been given, yelling but not heard, driven, sharing the pieces of what’s left of me within the walls I've slept in, left in, that have kept me in solicit, incandescent, florescent, full of solitude, eating up the molecules of the sorrow I've been living through, resting hurt below the dirt, a lesson for those who are incessant restless presences that are never free, from the blood that bleeds and eyes that see nothing but darkness marked never meant to be, alone bleeding in the ground beneath the willow trees that feed on the grieving artist, the words written by a corpse the warped ryhmes upon it The man I want to be, the world I wish to see, the lyrics that I continually need to bleed to convince myself to see a reason to believe in humanity despite their deeds that shaped me, the evil that I leave rotting on the top of this cold corpsed mess, you know the rest And I feel less than death’s caress, a merciless molesting test that dresses me in the colours of a broken artist, ending the pain they started, a world farthest away from me while I'm ripped apart as they're living the live's they would have wanted, above the harness of six feet of armoured ground, buried in the feelings, pound after pound, alive under the mound, just waiting to be found, no longer wanted around, deafened by silent angry sound Creating pain internally burning me, momentarily making poetry about the person I wish I could be and the things I'll never get to see happen again The man from then and the misshapen man that's been forgotten, left to fend for himself, dismembered by everyone else The lifeblood, the sorry story that ran through the veins and exclaiming pain that came from the brain and carried out the very mouth of the buried artist Let him drown, weary barely carrying his carcass in the rain, forgotten, rotten in the blame of a world gone insane decomposing away until only words remain, once again. © 2018 R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)Author's Note
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R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)Burlington, Halton, CanadaAboutMost of my poems can be differing lengths depending on the time you want to spend reading them. You can avoid reading anything brackets, or read it all. If you want an in-between, you can read only th.. more..Writing |
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