My life
she saved
not once, but
thrice.
Letters in jail,
heroin,
and
from my myself.
But my reflection now-
endless black eyes,
and milk white skin.
A memory of a stranger
the stranger of a memory.
I have fallen away,
into a deep abyss,
hollow,
and out of place,
and for a reason,
that only,
a dead man knows.
Through the last door
I walked
and now remains the sweet aftertaste
of
just
nothing.
About the Creator
Zeno Antonius
a rider on the storm
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I Have Just Found This Prose Beat Poem! This Is a Decade Old!
My mind is a highly inhospitable place for a soul like mine. My entire existence is just one flawed chemical imbalance. A bipolar one at that. To say I was a psychopath would be incorrect. I feel empathy, but not for myself. Not for me. The lights are on but nobody’s home, actually it changes, sometimes the lights are off but somebody is home. A crazy man running around in the darkness in his underwear with a blender, throwing random objects in, his grandma’s ashes, tampons, regular mail, all the norms of daily life being construed into a single inanimate object, the man proceeds to drink it, projectile vomiting the averageness of life all over the bathroom mirror. There’s a knock at the door, the lights turn on and the man is gone. Routines. Routines. Routines. Without routines where would be? Well routines are responsible for my trip off the mountain off sanity. The same thing every day, every second of my life. My room is bright orange. I’m not entirely sure why; I think I read in one of those ‘positive impact’ life magazines that the colour of your room can cause great mood changing vibes. Waking up to a bright colour will change your day for the better. That’s bullshit. I feel like I’m constantly being highlighted. That my 10 metre squared bedroom room is part of a government plot. Or that my whole life is just a test by some sick twisted fuck of a God to wreak havoc and enjoy the pure entertainment of a man slowly lose his mind and there’s not a single thing I could do about it. It took me a while to figure out this fact and I assure you to stick by it. Don’t take anything personal, no-one is out to get you, you’re not important enough and neither is anybody else. Bad luck is as bad luck does. The last year of my life has been without a doubt surreal. Some sort of a dream but yet I feel more alive than ever. The brittle fragility of life only has one cure; don’t step around it, just run straight into it, destroy it. Who the fuck cares about winning an egg and spoon race anyhow. Out of the blue and into the black.
By Zeno Antonius9 years ago in Poets
I wanted to title this something different, but worried that my chosen title might cause problems entering the United States in the future so this is the new title. It's the greatest title. No one has ever written a title better than this. (All titles unrelated to content).
Let me be honest. I am finding this difficult. Now, I like a challenge, a stretch, a bit of an obstacle course. “Write about the decline of the British Empire in the form of a narrative poem in which your protagonist is an artichoke” I read, and flex my fingers. “Write a haiku to evoke the sensation of sibilance using only the first half of the alphabet.” “Well”, I think to myself, “this should be fun.” But “write about a system that isn’t working”? A system that isn’t working? Now? In 2026? ONE system? My favourite system that isn’t working? The sexiest system that isn’t working? The one giving me the most angst day to day? The one giving me the most existential dread? I am, as I say, finding this difficult. I will own that I have contemplated writing a thousand words on why the steady “all on” setting on my fairy lights is the EIGHTH of seven options which must be sequentially activated to get there, because that is a system that some fool came up with and it definitely doesn’t work, and now who is paying the price, eh? But how can I write about my fairy lights when…. When…. When….
By Hannah Moore6 days ago in Humans
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