Its Burrows

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
"Its Burrows"

Submitted: February 26, 2011

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Submitted: February 26, 2011



The unresolved thoughts create a death wish and a burden. The worm continues to burrow, deep into the recesses of the brain, until those painful memories and thoughts control and dictate every thought process that you undergo. It won’t let go. It will hang on and it refuses to die. It takes such violent revolt to overthrow its cold grasp on the possibility of progression. It is unrelenting, and without it destiny is only a depressing process.

With all the faces you see, with all the recommendations and the crowds and the possibilities, where does the flood of memories cease? You wish that, you wanted that. With this person, you hoped for this. You wanted this person to do that. Each set of eyes unknowingly provides a backdrop and a story.

The days become short, and the night becomes long. Shadow overtakes reality. The lines blur, and all that’s left is the shell of what was meant to be something else. Influenced by society. Controlled by the worm. Its clenches aren’t going to release those thoughts. It isn’t going to let you work through them. It doesn’t budge.

You reach your hands out, to grasp a hand, and all that you are met with is the ghostly remnants of regret and illusion. It withers away before your very eyes into a wisp of hazed smoke. Life is a torrent of repeated occurrences. Then you look down at your own clenched fist, and you try to pry your fingers out of it. But they won’t move. They’ve been manipulated, force-fed into this position.

If there was a way to redefine those outlines, and color them with reality, you would. The worm wants you to compromise your future so you’ll be content with disregard and apathy. What simplicity it is to maintain that the names carved on your arm will be looked upon forever. Every time you try to blot them out, every time you scratch at them, they only bleed and scar. They’re completely annihilated, and yet they won’t die.

What, then, do you sacrifice? Underneath the gun, you simply quiver in fear. Yet you still don’t know how to fight what always has been. Your mind doesn’t look beyond that. It only looks at the destructive sequence. What had the possibility to become something prolific has twisted and converted itself at the whim of the worm. Don’t let it die…kill it mercilessly…thought, release. Brainwash, release.

The holes are getting wider and deeper. You can’t ignore the shadows anymore. The past, the former, can’t bear the latter. The worm will flourish. It will dominate. It is bent on the path of destruction. The limbs shake, the heart grows cold. You try to rage against the dying light, like you were told. But how do you fight? How, indeed?

They only doubt. You can burn the images into their minds, just as the worm has done to yours, and yet they will refuse to accept your condition. The understanding of another becomes more impossible than defeating the worm itself. They only contribute. How can they help? Humanity is the reason the worm made its way there in the first place. Without conflict, it cannot survive. Yet you are still feeding it. You are still looking for influence.

Then you deny your own intent. Unjustification. You’re waiting, wishing, hoping still. Then you hear the grinding and mashing of memory into present, and you feel the worm. You can’t postpone any longer. This isn’t about anyone else. This is your battle. It’s time to plow through the thoughts, and meet them where they don’t expect you to show up at. By the time it’s over, the worm will have been attacked from behind before it can even come to terms with what’s happened.

It’s eaten those memories. You hold its squirming and reluctant body in your hand, and you feel the sudden burst of difficulty as it makes one final attempt to assail you with those hauntings and images. The onslaught is blinding. Your fist has made its way open, it’s broken through its prison of thought-binding. Devastation, but now reform.

The worm lays there, full of its undead fury. Then, the fingers contract, the fingers close, the fingers smash, the fingers cripple. Silence. Clarity overwhelms. It’s so bright, you don’t understand it. But all that you know is that a corpse now lays where torture once assaulted. The pulses of hatred and disgust are no longer flowing.

And before you can look upon it in any further disgust, the Bird comes. You were looking for the Bird the whole time, and it was waiting for the moment. It heard your beseeching cries of horror, and it stood by. It deftly swoops in, and pulls the worm right out of your still-clenched hand. You stand aghast, and then open you hand again to find that its slime is there. The Bird flies over, and it disappears. The graceful wings have wiped it away.

The presence of the Bird still lingers in your mind, even after it has flown away. Now you realize that only one worm is illogical. It is chasing after the others. They will all die one day. You are sure of it. You are ready now to go show the names on your arms to others, the crimson scars still seeping. Your resolution is now going to be the story that the worm will fight even harder against. But there’s nothing it can do now. The light has gathered again in your eyes. It is there to stay in twinkling eternal bliss.

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