My Hands Have Become My Prison -------------------------------------------
Walking back and fourth on a table full of
Dominos. I am half way intoxicated. Falling pieces placed somewhat ramdomley.
Drifting off in lines, down to the chair, and then to the floor. The clatter of clickin porcilin
pushed together under my feet.
My mind has been lost, my hands hold my guilt. I run my fingers tight against my scalp.
My eyes see through diffrent perspective. I
just dont care. I am going to do these things.
Spinning the Oil burner lit up under my Bic
I begin to play with "Mr. Hide untill he takes
over. The smoke stinks but tastes good. And in what seems to be a blink of an eye I am not the man I once was. After all what does tommorw matter? My hands are my prison.
They are my guide through my mess of Dominos. Scattered and still turning over into one another. Going in every direction. It is what it is! "The Story Always Ends Bad."
After all I am in love with my killer. My arms are wide open I wait for my dimize. The smile on my face gives my heart away. My story is
writen on the dash of my headstone.
This is pretty deep and your vivid descriptions conjure up some intense visual images. The domino metaphor is really effective in this piece.
It reads more as prose than poetry, but I rather like it.
Submission Name: My Hands Have Become My Prison
