the brain is an unloyal servant. she only serves the heart, the emotional compass of her mind not the electrical beating box that is held in the cage of my chest. she allows life, but more than living:
to be alive, to breath: rhythmic mechanical function of our lungs performed by the pink mush that allows me to write these letters. yet the mind is an unloyal servant, as i can't make her think. she thinks on her own. breathes me on her own. beats my heart on her own. she rules herself and everything below her, and she is a self-serving servant. when has the mind ever served another? and yet she is a servant, a servant to who? a deluded concept made by philosophers. if i think, therefore i am. but who am i when i think? if all i think is death, and all she does is hate me, am i? i think, so i am. when people want to die they do not shoot themselves in the heart, never in the tender home of emotion. suicide is done best with a gunshot to the head. to kill the unloyal servant first. to kill her power, her thoughts, her restless beating, the never ending drip of water from the darkest part of your mind. the unloyal servant has never been of service.
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the night the stars fell - poetry collection
PoetryPLEASE READ THE CONTENT WARNINGS this poetry collection includes themes and descriptions of: sexual violence/assault/harassment PTSD hallucinations depression anxiety self harm disordered eating in my experience feeling seen through works of writ...
