A new piece... I haven't written in a long time. I find that deep emotional turmoil brings out the artistry. This is and isn't poetry... its a weird cross between poetry and prose. the grammar is awful and disjointed but it makes it feel correct.
Head bowed, brow furrowed in concentration. A brief exchange with you. A friendly smile, graceful walk. A humble attitude. The epitome of business professional. Every discussion laced with sincerity and kindness. A feeling of open honesty.
But look closer… look into the windows. The friendly smile stops at the lips. The eyes, they’re hollow. If you allowed yourself to peer deeper. If you opened yourself up to truth. You would see it. You would swallow it. Instinct tells you to avert your eyes. Your animal self trembles at the nearness of it. You tell yourself nothing and ignore it all.
Behind the bars of politeness, in a cage of civility. It rages. Screaming, weeping, choking on every word. Every hug is a greedy hook jabbed deep into flesh. Every handshake a tightening strangle on it. Every sincere apology is a jagged shard of glass digging deeper into it’s very soul.
It knows. It knows that all is a stage. That the masks are only semi-permanent. It knows that one day you will strike it. It knows that one day you will show your true beast. It rages and comforts in the cage. Inside it is protected and suffocated. It yearns for freedom and fears the repercussions. It wants to walk in the sunlight but is terrified of the burn. It reaches for light and shrinks from warmth.
What is true? What is false? How can it know the difference? How can it understand when you speak a truthful lie at every moment. You mean it when you say you care, but if you looked. If you allowed yourself to peer deeper. If you opened yourself up to truth. You would see it. You would be swallowed by it. Instinct tells you to avert your eyes. You would see your beast inside its cage and you would know.
You would know that your true intent is to unleash yours upon the world. You would know that you lie at every turn. You would know that in truth you are the cruel and hated master who would kick and lash and tear the flesh asunder.
And it knows your beast. It has seen those stripes on the flesh of others. It weeps with knowing. Knowing that you would devour its weakness. Knowing that its truth is shameful. Knowing that never will it step into the light and be loved. It is hideous and scarred. Grotesque by any measure. And it weeps.
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