Unveiling Dark Whispers: The Haunting Truth of “I Am An Old Scratch”
Ever find yourself tangled in the wilderness of a mind that’s part enigma, part restless shadow? This poem dives headfirst into that very labyrinth—a faceless soul navigating broken fences and pitch-black forks, whispering secrets of scars and silent battles. It’s like the poet dares us to ask: When the path’s unclear, do we carve our initials boldly into the pillar of thought, or do we let Tartarus—which never sleeps, mind you—keep pacing in the dark? There’s this unsettling, almost wry dance between vulnerability and grit here. You’ll feel the weight of weary bridges and the itch of memories that refuse to settle, all wrapped in a language that feels both ancient and immediate. If you’re in the mood to step off the beaten road and wrestle with shadows that bleed and grin, this piece might just stick to your ribs. LEARN MORE

I Am A FacetLess Soul Of Assumptions,
Forgetting The Broken Fence,
By A Crippled Cold Bridge,
Rotting Soft Wormed Wood,
And That OverTurned Pitch Black Fork In The Road,
My Name Could Be An Old Scratch…
…
Heavy Killing To Lift The Air For Breeding,
Acres Of Familyar Terrain For Following Minute Irritations…
…
This Way Comes…
…
Distractions And Pretense,
Assertions In My FingerTips To ReWind,
Then To ReLight The Charcoal And Ignore Tantalus…
…
Thirsty Birds And My 13 Scars,
I Can Twist The Wrist To Settle The Difference?
Show The City What Shadow I Might Nail UpOn The Wall,
Let It Bleed Back Down To That FloorBoard’s Beat,
Wear My Shoes To Bed…
…
…
Make My Way To The Falling Of Rain,
And MayBe Carve My Initials With A Pen-Knife From This Life’s
Language
InTo A Pillar Of Thought…
…
I Be LoneSome But Never A Fool… Nor A Flood,
I Can Still Wink And Grin… I Can Wash My Hands And EveryThing…
…
…
…
Tartarus Never Sleeps.
Post Comment