Tragedies On My Walls
The pictures that once brought me pure joy and laughter nowadays atleast partially pain me. I hang them up anyways, they cover the hate and untaped paint seams.
Tragedy was always the trajectory, I just never saw it from that angle. Thought I made my way out of trapping until a bag grabbed me by the ankles.
I’m talking tears that showed up years after the funerals. I’ve had both thoughts and dreams that my peers and psychiatrists called unusual.
Fucking doctors, what do they know anyways. I’d stare at the TV blankly as a kid, knowing it was rerun season and watch the show for the next seven days. Just to spite the likes of the Robert Frosts and the what’s his name Hemingways.
Tragic was a commonly spoken word in the place I was raised in. If not because of graves and urns, then because of gates and state pens.
Not the kind of pens that you write with, but the kind you end up at after indictments and you meet the people you’ll likely do life with.
Theres whole days I can’t remember what laughter even sounds like. I have to have my memory jogged through the likes of strangers sound bytes.
I couldn’t get these images from being unburned in my brain so the the pictures of it all, on my wall they may as well remain.
