Concussion

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Vintage Publishing


I have concussion. Does that mean that I am myself?

Submitted: September 11, 2018

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Submitted: September 11, 2018

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Hitting my head on that piece of wood, feeling like I have brain damage to feel good.

I'm dazed and confused, being brainwashed by a tornado.

I see everything in a blur of amnesia and the philosophy of darkness.

Headaches on my brain feel like bruises caused by leeches sucking my blood.

Like my head has lost blood just leaving a painful skull, the light in me I will annul.

I want to cut myself, the pumpkin on Halloween.

I feel like Michael Myers seeing the victims of my veins, and I learn to play the violin.

The pain has me in a trance, and in that pain I will dance.

 

I feel dizzy so I see everything like a TV forgetting the aerial.

I don't know what I am seeing but I know the sharp objects I am feeling.

I feel like a mountain with concussion, dancing with cold water to make Atlantis disappear.

The dizziness is a wind of confusion, and my mind hurting is not an illusion.

If I had flowers in my hand, I would cut them like dead bodies on unholy land.

Now I know why zombies are brain-dead, because they have permanent concussion for their midnight.

I take pills as a cure for this pain, yet for my concussion they are heavy rain.

The only way to stop is to decapitate my own head, and then the concussion will be dead.

 

I have no more dreams because life is my sweet nightmare.

My first headache is like 1969, the first person to land on the moon of my skull.

The headaches keep walking and they plant their white flags.

Stars are now stranded on the island that is surrounded by volcanic blood.

Each headache is like an earthquake, and my body is the earth feeling the shake.

This concussion is my epiphany, because it makes me see.

I know I am not myself, a ghost in a human body.

I am Donnie Darko and my imaginary friend Frank is real.

 

My mind is fucked because I want to stay in this concussion.

I can see blood as art, and that sky will never depart.

Demons reside on my brain, estate agents for my headaches.

I feel the blood on my skull and it's humanity becoming a drought.

I am turning into a zombie, and I feel so fucking free.

I will feed on the intestines of the light, I will give the darkness body parts.

I have concussion so is this poem about a person who is imaginary?

I have concussion so will I be normal when I recover?

Concussion © 2018 Dexter Angelus Draven. All rights reserved.


© Copyright 2018 TheSinningCrow. All rights reserved.

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