Plastic Martyr
Martyr & LedgenZ
I believe
that if I
wrote with
razor blades
that keyed
your leg,
and used your
blood as ink,
you would pay
more attention.
I could take
a rogue comet
and re-direct
it's route
facing the
intricate pattern
of inanimate stars,
and create a
constellation
that would
mock the shape
of the yeti
so you could
relate with
our scriptures,
that so often
pass you,
without ever
the slightest notice.
I'm just
a disposable
plastic martyr,
that sit's in
your treasure chest
forever unnoticed,
and pondering;
.
.
.
I've spent too
much time,
trying to enter
a broken
watch world.
eye-riding black
unicorns,
and God’s vision
of the sparrow.
putting a rush
order in for
tomorrow…on
wounded wing.
Don’ you see me,
dreaming? Silence
is…so damn poetic
of you. What’s
worse than martyrs,
poet martyrs,
with muted illusions
of grandeur, and
talking sharpie pens.
You have taken
permanent residence
in paper signatures,
but I know how
afraid you are of
tearing, of rain
fading, of not
writing yourself into
cement. What’s
gonna happen
when minds evolve
to temperatures
exceeding fahrenheit
451, where you gonna
write then. And
who's gonna know you?
I am offering my flesh,
my blood…in memory.
Transcribe this shelter,
this Sistine Chapel
and I will bear you,
a version of
word that will
never end. I am
eternally-ruled
for your pilot pen.
waiting to birth
crimson prose and
blue inked children,
aloud.
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