shell

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A shell of a former self
hollow, brittle, full of shame.
A self who does not remember
what it is like to be who she is
or supposed to be.

What if who she is has turned to be
a falsehood, a lie, or maybe
a false truth she strongly held onto?
Innards twist in angst
Were all thought an illusion?
Were opinions asked
when answered, tricks
of the questioner?
Maybe truth does not, in fact,
set you free
but a tool to bind you up
in chains of doubt, misery and fear
Were all heavenly voices a sham
to disrupt
to deny
to destruct

to destroy

 

Passionate, earnest seeking
of that which is right
was in fact just a facade

A series of masquerades
because you see
that too is Lie’s tool to fool

fooling you into thinking

you’re earnestly searching

for what is right
Fingers pointed to the crowd
in judgment because of my
selfish want, no, need to be righteous.

How could have I gone wrong?
Where did I go wrong?
Did I not seek truth?
Justice?
Was I not called to stand in the gap
for the voiceless?

Did I not fight for them?

Did I not love the stranger in my midst?
Did I not love? Love till I could no more
give? Love till I was empty?
Did I not pour my soul out to you, show you parts of me
hidden from the light of the world?

A hollow shell
cannot hold nor contain passion or love
only resentment and hatred.
Hence, evil is what swirls
within the hollow shell
billowing its noxious fumes
within itself
till all that is worth living
for is eroded into debris.

And when the swirling evil speaks
from a hollow shell,
the falsehood rings
louder than the ear
can bear to hear,

ricochet
clanging, banging, destroying
More than a normal heart can manage to endure.

This Voice of one’s own
had once seemed clear, sure, precise;
but now archaic, muffled,
unbearable, undiscernable
Unwanted.
One’s voice of truth has turned
into a banshee’s scream of lies churned
from a cauldron unrecognizable
even to oneself
lit from below with the firewood of
malice, pain, rejection, jadedness and

plain ol’ don’t give a flying f*ck.

A cauldron to wallow in the muck of disgust
And – this – feeble heart
can endure
no

more.

“The shell must break before the bird can fly.”
— Alfred Lord Tennyson

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