Saturday, 4 February 2017

A Few Bullets Short of Home by AJ Huffman

Photograph by Nate Dworsky
this poem is taken from A Few Bullets Short of Home, published by mgv2>publishing, 2015

There are demons in my head, talking
in tongues.  I know them,
but familiarity is beside the point.
They are drowning me
in my own versions of understanding,
though nothing is ever complete.
There is always a gap
of light or air.
Unconsciously I find it, breathe
for another day where another torture awaits.
I have given my soul
to make this cycle stop,
but the hate of fate is stronger,
bends my path,
but never breaks it.
I continue to wobble through this circle-like hell,
gathering words,
then losing them deliberately.
It is a cleansing, I suppose,
maybe a lesson
as necessary as blood.

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