The Amaranthine Poet

Torture Is Not Poetry. It’s Torture.

January 9, 2010 on 2:25 am | In Everything | No Comments

My regression is my cocoon. I smell the dust on the walls. Hold them close. My dolls. My mind has become a room I have been enveloped in. Heart is pounding at the door. Go away. This is our secret place. Where I think and think. And think. And never. Never feel. You keep saying you’ll soon be gone. So go.
I have learned. Strength will not tread upon fear. What we need will never become irrelevant. Life will continue to be irreverent. Brutalizing masters with the snap of their own whips.
Human connections are suffocation.
I will always be afraid. I will. I will always be afraid of you. Faceless demon. Ominous and marred. It’s irreversible.
Life is irreversible. Damn.
‘Sliding down the slippery wings of softer birds who plunge into blacker skies.’ Torture is not poetry. It’s torture. Your pain will never float on lily white clouds. Your sorrow will always succumb to pain. Your tears will never soak the clouds and cleanse the world. You offend the moon because you will not revel in the pearly milk of his light.
You keep saying you’ll soon be gone. So go.
I’m returning. Regressing. Embracing. My cocoon.

-jenna awad. is my name.