Prose Suffering

[Hannah Capps]

Tell me all your thoughts on God, cause' I really like to meet her. Tell me all your thoughts on 'God' 'cause I'm on my way to see her. Ask her why we are the way we are.
-Dishwalla 'Counting Blue Cars'

Hold your head heavenward, heady wounds...hidden meaning?
Nonhazardous subjects, fail-safe grips, injured centers, cracks lacking sincerity...
Crippling games, structured care, silenced tidings...
Game-over, steamrolled acts...admired?...dancing in the dark, admitted fatality?
Been here before, vigil of wonder...
Altruist flatboat, scrap heap of self-chosen harm...
Drowning, forced to shore...Do you want something more?
Head-full of lies, obstructed diaphragm...
Standing below an orange sky, knowing, being, and breathing fire...
Stubborn will, weary ills,
Tossed away ALL owned...when you’re remiss and I’m alone...
Redemption’s extension imported agony...
Proclaiming free, perceiving me...
Acidic reality, venomous fact, better than fabric falsehoods—what’s genuine?
You’re the reason I’m in season. This rotten-forgotten
Talk TO me. You're tired; I’m wired.
Exploiting, cloying, used, liquefied-touch electrifies...
Holding onto flat-lines, passing between...
Clenched fist, heart twist, mind decides to try to hide it...
Precious joy...granted pain...deep-set ache...hidden home?
Lighter fluid; fistula sustained? deep-fried post…
Seafaring's unsung, calcified docket Anchored fate?
Precious, pious...setting sun, spend forever?
Calmed storm, come back to bed, heavy crown upon your head...
Tired eyes, weary lies, invested insanity...
Certainty sidelined...recalling no third alternative...
Divest this divide. Deep-dive to hide.
Underneath bone and broken skin, volcanic ash is a fist full of sin.
Swelling, telling this wavelet ache messiness, adolescent minds fade into the flood...
Your touch lingers. Taken imperfectly,
Lost silence, breaking sores, scrambling for something more...
Primed and set on edge, toppling down defect ledge...
Reckless, delirious, rigid, dark, ablaze... additive hollow aches...
Bittersweet: ‘dirty hands, chafing skin...
Memento Miro's grimacing gaffes...
Religions ‘truth’...metallic blood ne'er could explain...
This lasting goodbye, tears streaming down our eyes; this our closing embrace, semisweet ‘lop-sided’ face;
Harm resting broken peace, birth knell procession, derelict sweet obsession...
Tract contrary phony light? Tax secure ear chopped sound?
Everyone’s so fake; everything is so blurry...I can’t live without you. You could be my someone.
Protected from all that is obscene...Oceans between, so far but so close...
Make your own ending; how does that feel? Stumble crawling…
Riled, defiled...might take a while...
Rotten, restricted, unheard-of, easily bruised pocket-size confusion...
Processed end? Awkward inside?
Measures weight window? wounds festering…
Canted caws, crawling...
Take away, safe today?
Only you know...