Meathead Monologue

the tip of the arrow into her flesh

i've been closing my eyes
often, if not all the time, to see.
under the skin i can feel
something, if not everything, urging me.
there's a blankness in redemption;
there's a void inside the unknown.
if we are not to wonder, then how will we all know?
within a friend i can see a light,
bright but not blinding,
tight yet intertwining.
her fingers are inside stars
that set us all apart.
the roses in our hearts are what
sparked us from the start.
but if we are not to wonder, then how will we turn into art?
i know a group of people
who are begging to be opened.
their mouths are closed
but there arms are posed
for them to be lifted, not disposed.
yet their eyes are shut in order to see,
to see the world that has firmly shaped me.
and if closed eyes is how we shall see
the other dimensions remarkably,
then let me tell you what i see
when i close my eyes and i begin to sleep:
there's a girl, more so a princess
and she's wearing her baby blue dress.
she stands in a vast field, feet apart
and her hands are digging into her heart.
there is a bright pain splashed across her face,
and she is begging her loved ones for a change of pace.
but what makes her so significant,
what makes her so very different
is not the fact that she is maiming herself,
but the fact that she's so intelligent.
the fact that she's all knowing
and still going
to a place where she will not thrive.
to a place where she will be torn apart
because of her insides.
the fact that she knows and the fact that she still goes.
the fact that she purposely hurts and the fact that she plainly inserts
the tip of the arrow into her flesh.
the tip of the arrow into her flesh.
the tip of the arrow into her flesh.

r.k.