Another poem, another
tortured stem. My hands
are only tools, vessels
of my soul, placed
rhythmically inlined
with the beatings of
my already dead heart
rodents gnawing away
on other rodents; men
steaming away in
their offices. Young
boys using their hands as
vessels, as tools, striking
others; striking lovers;
tattooing the curve of
their fists into the
unconscious minds
a room is where I
was meant to be. A room
with low lights, with
white walls, white carpets,
instruments, books, coffee
rings on tables.
Wishing to live again,
wishing to laugh, I
can only succumb to
who I am and how I
was meant to live,
floating idly among the
wandering, drifting souls,
among the dead leaves,
the sewer cats, the dirty
showers and unclogged sinks
show me the way
I have lost it
show me your freckles
I wish to know
light leaves, heavily, dawn
ensues, dusk climbs the
ranging mountains, the
deadly games that
flowers play
***
***
Chad Beattie was born in the
middle of Baltimore and DC, he was embedded to love city life. He is a
sophomore at Towson University, studying English. He writes both poetry and prose
for a number of reasons. He uses writing as a way to vent and convey particular
emotions, as well as recording the life that surrounds him into words. And
sometimes the words are shaped into meaning. Some of his favorite writers include Charles Bukowski,
Ernest Hemingway, Robert Creeley, and Hubert Selby Jr. But the writer he loves
the most is John Fante. He taught him how to articulate ideas into simple
statements. He taught him how to write
