#lineation

I was born with the barrel of a gun in my mouth.

How poetic.

How pathetic

A piercing to the soft pallet.

A Jackson Pollock of castoff.

What good would that do?

Between tungsten teeth,

some steel alloy spraying alabaster brain matter.

The walls are off white already,

and i don't really know who i am right now,

but in the back of my mind,

the person i was

a week ago

is telling me to reframe.

Positivity.

Your peppa pig plaster can't cover

an exit wound the size of a satellite dish.

I am not a violent person

to anyone but myself.

there is something beautiful in being sub-human.

It's low self esteem,

a sawed-off shotgun with the silencer on

another news article buried under years of

worse problems than mine.

I am not the same person i was last week.

I want to get worse.

I want suffering, and

i want it beautiful.

God won't miss the gun girl,

propped up placid with a peacemaker to the pallet,

painting the ceiling in shotgun shells and shrapnel.

I want to be seen as the sum of my parts,

scattered in claret on the ceiling.

But here i am, waxing poetic.

On Poetry: Line and Sounds within

Sound Within Poetry We could say at the on set of this section about poetry’s sound. That if one had to give a better definition of poetry than the one listed in the dictionary it would be this: Poetry is language that has been structured into lines. This realization then changes how one sees a distinction from formal verse vs modern free verse poetry. It no longer becomes an argument about the…