Just a poem I wrote in ten minutes.
What is it, exactly,
That makes me alive?
My heart?
That beats to a thousand drums,
Pounding and throbbing,
Aching and breaking,
To a steady rhythm
Endlessly.
My brain?
With memories of torment,
Knowledge of loss,
Loose wild imaginings,
Replaying on a broken tape
Endlessly.
My eyes?
Mirrors to the soul,
To watch the death,
Of a thousand innocents,
Images never forgotten
Endlessly.
My mouth?
Filled with a swallowed tongue,
And pearly whites,
Moving to voice,
An understated opinion
Endlessly.
For I sit in my room,
Locked and isolated,
Trapped, taken, tousled,
I ask, what makes me alive?
Endlessly.
I do not ask,
A scientist.
Nor do I ask,
A priest.
I ask,
The person who knows me.
Me, myself, my mind.
What is it that makes me alive?
But who is that one that knows me?
What is it, exactly,
That makes me alive?
My heart?
That beats to a thousand drums,
Pounding and throbbing,
Aching and breaking,
To a steady rhythm
Endlessly.
My brain?
With memories of torment,
Knowledge of loss,
Loose wild imaginings,
Replaying on a broken tape
Endlessly.
My eyes?
Mirrors to the soul,
To watch the death,
Of a thousand innocents,
Images never forgotten
Endlessly.
My mouth?
Filled with a swallowed tongue,
And pearly whites,
Moving to voice,
An understated opinion
Endlessly.
For I sit in my room,
Locked and isolated,
Trapped, taken, tousled,
I ask, what makes me alive?
Endlessly.
I do not ask,
A scientist.
Nor do I ask,
A priest.
I ask,
The person who knows me.
Me, myself, my mind.
What is it that makes me alive?
But who is that one that knows me?