CHAINS.

There must be a chain to love,
A heavy metallic one,
That weighs down our hearts,
Darkens, the little flickers of joy in our soul,
Needles the,
Desperate corners of our needs,
Of our wants, to feel loved,
Or to be loved back.

The chain must be magnetic,
Magnetic, to pain, and;
And nothing but more pain,
And heart wrenching suffering,
Magnetic to all things that burn,
And cut deep and repeatedly hit hard.
Magnetic to,
Things that lead to our detriment,
Magnetic to,
Blood, and the sweet saltiness of the iron in it,
When it flows down our chests,
When it heats up our eyes,
With warm hot tears,
When it makes us as numb as a block of wood,
Paled, like a white leaf of paper,
From bleeding and bleeding and bleeding and not dying.

And we might find solace in blades,
To numb the aches,
And probably kickstart our deadbeat souls,
Souls, that died a long time ago.
Only alive in theory.

And then it gives birth to wishes,
This burden of feeling,
Wishes pink and plush with hope,
Hope,
The empty pathetic feeling,
Hope that;
Raises your spirits to the skies,
And quickly hides behind your regrets
When they hit the ground as hard as the full weight of loving, or living, or both.
Hope that calls it’s sisters expectations,
And together, they dress nicely,
Spic and span,
Designer and whatnot;
Entice you, seduce you, inveigle you,
Then trap you;
Stab, pierce and lacerate you,
Then trample you on the ground in heels,
And walkway with resplendent smiles,
Framed bright in red lipstick,
A job well done.
Calls for a drink.

And again you;
Or the heavy black feeling in your heart,
Will call out for them again,
Invite you to balls of clownery,
Pick your outfit for you and teach you to dance to the best songs,
Then leave you when the lyrics switch up on you,
When the dance moves dry up on you,
When the melody goes out of you,
And leave your wounded soul,
Alone,
Stranded,
In the middle,
Sweaty,
Exposed.

New romantics?

It must be a chain,
This thing.
I get more sure and sure of it everyday.
There must be cogent cords,
Cold and ferrous,
Holding back our reasoning when it’s most needed,
Tightly clenching our sanity,
Encouraging us to sway with the precarious wind,
To sway our hips freely,
And not look back,
At the ashes, the blood,
The bitter tears, the burnt bridges,
The wounds raw and persistent in our hearts,
The scars behind our chests.

There must be cords as hard as diamond,
Chaining our feet when we want to move forward,
When we try to move away from the hurt,
The impending oppression.
There must be a key also,
That unlocks a dopamine towards pain,
How else can you explain,
Scalded skin subjecting itself to fuming acid time and time again?
This is the 9th wonder of the world,
Or eighth,
I wouldn’t know,
I’ve been busy nursing my wounds,
Before I go fetch some others tomorrow,
Carry them in ferries to the deepest corners of my heart and wallow in them,
Needle my tender flesh with them,
Bury myself in them,
Laugh, cry and enjoy the irony with them,
Entertain ourselves with caustic sarcasm,
And maybe you will too,
Maybe we’ll be on the same boat but on different sides,
Each grieving in a different tide,
Looking away when the tears slide.

Maybe we’ll wash our eyes with the  sea water with you,
And let our eyes burn red from the salt,
And smile at the pain,
Give thanks for the physicality,
Maybe we’ll hit a blunt,
Get lost in the fleeting euphoria,
Smile the hurt away for a little while,
Before our demons awake from the loud sound of our laughter,
That they must find so irritating.

And now we’ll seek comfort in blades,
In more blunts, swigs of scotch, fast.
No breathing space.
Burn our tongues,
Lit candles taste so sweet.
Bite our inner cheeks,
Nothing beats the metallic taste of blood.
Hit and hit the walls,
And anything in between them,
The sting of cracked knuckles really slaps.

Sit on the cold welcoming floor,
And singe tight in our flaming pain,
Watch and learn baby,
Scorch and burn.

Vaporize our torment to the night,
Sing our misery to the dark,
Recite poems of our wretchedness to the walls,
These walls,
The most faithful friends,
Cloud our eyelashes with tears,
Salty with bitterness and sorrow,
Pass out when our chains tighten at our throats,
Knock us out to the ground,
And we let them win.
They always win.
It must be a rule etched somewhere in the walls of Rome,
Fortified with finality.

And as we surrender to the strangling of our chains,
Fizzling out the whimpers,
Silencing the cries,
A wave of hope settles over the pieces of our broken hearts,
Hope, the Nemesis.
And the cycle starts all over again,
Like a classic song on repeat.

We must find a way out of this dark tunnel,
A way to stop this rollercoaster,
To burst this labyrinth,
To, come up for air,
Forever.
To be free,
Not like birds but their wings,
To fly high without pain weighing down our delicate hearts,
With genuine smiles from the heart,
And white perfect teeth, at least for the story.
We should really fetch this copper rusty key,
The hidden code to break free from these chains,
To open the heavy gates of our hearts,
Salve our wounds and let them heal,
“We should really go searching tomorrow,”
“Mining, maybe?”
“Yes, we definitely should.”

And here is hope and expectation,
At it again.
And the chain;
Oh these debilitating chains,
Behind the wheel.