they say creativity doesn’t die
by chemical hands but
mine—tenaciously murdered
by pharmaceutical agents
smothering nurses, Angels of Death
wanting only to end perceived miseries
pressed pillows to my mouth/nose—and i,
the insect helpless on its back,
prostrate (dreaming)
drifting through smoky veils
obdurate, impertinent—she
of the throbbing heart, engines
revving for the race
she cannot win.
why this pain? such sorrows!
muted pleasures—caresses
through prison glass, the
goodbye kiss over plastic-shielded
lips. dry. loveless.
they said ‘nothing will change’
but quiet suffocated the humming
accelerators’ throb and thrum.
my lyrics grow soft. Impotent,
their putrescent decay attracting flies
duck-paddling in syrupy pools.
i traded complexities of sound/thought
for this dumb, animal peace.
with or without, there is suffering
but i am too numbed
now,
to care.

—–

Read more from Kirsten Imani Kasai at http://www.icesong.com/