One Sick Beat

Beat poetry is it’s own swing. And it almost necessitates the use of cigarettes. Here’s an original written by one of my favorite Tumblr accounts to stalk, known as ‘I do not exist. Only you exist.’ via theemergencyisme.tumblr.com. It’s far from my own style. Still, this is raw poetry.

 

The cigarette put out on my
neck, the nights I can’t quite
recall. Am I not a
collection of defining mistakes, a
collage of self-portraits,
camera, pen guided by your incessant
criticism?

Is there any grace left
that can cover a world of repeated,
willing misdeeds? Where has my
conscience gone, and are You with it,
hiding, whispering about my future, laughing
at the fact that I’m so morbidly petrified
that I can’t focus on the simplest of tasks?
Move the pen, read the book, tell the stories.

Good G-d, I can’t sit still, feet squirming
relieve the fever, type the confession, picture
percussory, fetishised suicide, selfish.
Friends and family mourning, my own grief
over my absence.

Self-serving, sit alone in my room,
say prayers, try to trick You into my favor,
SICK SICK SICK, I have been ill
since Sunday, maybe sophomore year
at university,
and it’s the result of my
morals, thrown in a landfill, smiling,
crashing into the hole left
by your pastoral promise that
I will never speak a prayerful word.

I apologize,
the fault is mine.

 

Check out the original source: http://theemergencyisme.tumblr.com/post/82239584603/the-cigarette-put-out-on-my-neck-the-nights-i

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