My Two-sided Pen- Forgotten Oath

Or perhaps there's a name for it, ‘Paradox of truth and twisted thinking’ and the pen has woken to stab me now in the face- I woke to meet its fine tip in my face, facing squarely, the truth of what I’d done, and though I’m wont to deny I simply can’t, not if I want to sleep this night.

My pen thought faster than my mind did, driving my head to its madness-

I buried my head in the sand with my backside exposed to many arrows lined up behind me, arrows with fine tips laced with the quietness of night and they let fly, no sound made, deadly nothings. Yes deadly nothings, for of all the arrows shot only one was true, the one whose back I stabbed with my two-sided pen. With that arrow I'm down in the prison I made for myself though when I made it, it was a fine house painted in shades of black and grey, my prison I sentenced myself to when I spoke the lie my fingers swore was true. Clarity of reason suspended for the beauty of the house’s affectation, I uttered an oath one should never utter, not even if under a spell, for in uttering the oath I closed the one door I had to survival. Indeed, my pen thought faster than my mind did, driving me to its madness.

Now I'm no less than a brute savage locked in time’s forgotten memories, fragments of imaginations never to come to life. I hardly recognize my own face, my own hand and my own voice, for I cut myself loose from them the moment I uttered that poorly thought oath. In my prison I once thought a house I have shadows for company, and voices fill my head. These voices are memories, memories of foolishness and broken wishes, memories of broken words and vain thoughts, the ink spilling anew from my empty self. I see ink climb up the walls, forming reminders like doors into forgotten dreams, dreams I wish I never had. And the torture begins over again.

Now I wish I thought before my pen spoke, then I should not have uttered that unholy oath to the death of me, and my head should not be in the sand exposing me to finely tipped arrow heads. I should be safe in the house I built for me, and it should remain a house, then my pen will speak of beautiful things, creating dreams I can hope to, till I wake out of the door to meet with them. The ink on the wall chide me still, ever loud, bright, engraved in my eyelids and on my eyeballs so that I should see it when I wake and when I sleep, and though I will to toss upon my bed in search of respite, I am held fast by strong chains, chains I forged with my own hands- I locked myself upon my bed and threw away the keys.

To whom should the apology go? To the pen or to my mind? Or to the one I uttered the oath against? Fastened on the back of my memory is the face and the words spew out to condemn me, pricking me with guilt. Regret is spelled on my forehead as with a hot knife and the blood flows in deep grooves down my temples. My tears are shut, on an order not to flow while pain eats away at what's left of my seared consciousness. I sink slowly into oblivion and soon I’m forgotten of me, save the face to whom I uttered the oath. Should I live, it would be by that face, and I want to live……

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

Powerful thoughts and places in the poem.
"Regret is spelled on my forehead as with a hot knife and the blood flows in deep grooves down my temples."
Regret is a hard egg to swallow. When bad deeds are done. The "Paradox of truth and twisted thinking’"
can lead us to the wrong places. Thank you for sharing the excellent poetry.
Coyote

[Opeyemi Jide-Ojo]

I really appreciate this, Coyote. Thank you.

[Coyote Poetry]

You are welcome.