Yet Another


I make ruins of what was already shambled;

I trample over the brain of a once great village.

The heart of the city I, grit my teeth at, push my body down among the people.

The stomach of the metropolis knotted into grooves of intestinal rope.

The legs and arms of the city unravel and tremor as though it is mimicking what the brain of the urban does often.

I hear the heaviness of the feet that sprout under the many story high-lighted steel candles.

The heart echoes throughout the bustle as it curves beneath the streets and through intricate sewers.

It echoes what it wants and exits through the mouth of the metro.

What once felt alive drains out of the ears of the urban.

The echoes turn into screams and pleas for help.

I awake the eyes and heighten the senses.

I awake. Alone. In yet another hospital bed.

My body, the city, fades away as yet another fire dreads.

There it sits. Like an adverse beauty mark.

It beckons an inverse plea.

It claims redness and sporadic space. It encapsulates a thinness that holds a life.

It calls to be brushed and crafted. I acknowledge it and twist it off. It is short now, what lies on the ground is dead.

Just like the scab left across the blue and green sewers that run underground.

The ruins left have left yet another collapsed stone archway.

And so yet another ruin lives on with quiet spirits to run through it.

The torment it must be ravaged with to no longer live with life inside.

The torment is not alone-

The ruins climb along the string that dangles throughout the shell I possess.

All it thinks of is what is to come next.

Yet another worry among the ruined ruins.

I sit and feel the ruins moving.

It lurches up and reaches-

My paper heart that beats ripped pulses and crumbles into attempting confetti.

My glass eyes flutter open and shine a glare against the ceiling as the yellow beat outside hits my sea foam stained glass.

My paper-mache Pollacked skin twitches as my confettied heart recycles and turns solid.

I feel the pulsing run through my construction paper body.

I am dressed as yet another paper doll.

I make ripples on the pressed down, crisp tissue paper sheets.

My feet feel like crumpled balls of stationary as I set them on the cold, patch worked floor.

My arms look like ripped fringes of notebook paper, rough, raggedy.

My ears, like a paper roll ready to be yelled through, hear footsteps.

I know yet another hospital bed.

Yet another sterile room.

Yet another gown that encapsulates everything except a moon.

Yet another moon goes without seeing.

If the moon and sun gave yet another chance to the ruined paper doll.

If the stars gave yet another chance to the ruined paper doll.

If the fates gave yet another chance to the ruined paper doll.

If the World…if the world gave yet another chance to the ruined paper dol-

The world would begin in yet another ruin. As my brain did. As my heart did. As my body did.

As I did.

I am not yet another sob story.

I am a ruin.

A ruin of ancient proportions that wants yet another chance.

I make ruins out of my shambled self;

I feel the citizens of a once golirfied city settling down in the pit of my stomach where once a great civilization of winged symmetry fluttered.

Yet another thought pops into my head.

Yet another thought pops into my-

Yet another thought pops into-

Yet another thought pops-

Yet another thought-

Yet another-

It echoes throughout my ruins, yet another chance.


This poem is about: 
My family
Guide that inspired this poem: 


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