Physical Me

A poem about my inner, secret self that I keep close.

Physical Me
by Keaton Foster



Physical me—
dream,
nightmares,
quite real.

How do I scream?

Words, weapons,
through this heart,
into thy spine.
The pain complete,
astutely believed,
ironically relived.

Die, I shall—
but not before
I have lived.

So it be,
I’ll continue:
onward,
inward,
deeper still,

into the chasm,
into the soul
I shall peer.

Seeing darkness,
feeling nothing less,
knowing this.

Physical me—
terrible.

May I scream?
Hopelessness...
Do I dare bleed?

Hemorrhaging feelings—
all the while this face,
an expressionless void,
that those so close
have come to see.

Factual, the façade.
Actual, the retard.
They have no idea—
how could they ever?

In this world of chaos,
in this sea of incompleteness,
nothing seems as it must.

How could it ever be less?

God above,
the darkness below.
Fate is the rule;
everything else flows.

Escaping is impossible—
that which is,
and has always been,
inevitable.

Physical me—
how do I see?
How can I feel
that which is numb,
devoid of feeling,
without any meaning?

Pointless screams—
but no one close,
nor anyone far away,
will hear what is said,
or that which is conveyed.

I am ill—
sickened of mind,
poisoned in kind.

My heart beats,
my brain fights—
against one
and each other.

At odds they will exist.

Words pour to page;
ideas fail me again.
What I wish to say,
what I must convey—
beyond any scope,
and every detail—
is deemed surreal.

Sickened I must be.
Hopeless, I can’t scream.

I have not,
could I ever
begin to convey
all that I mean,
all that was meant.

Physical me…



Written by Keaton Foster Copyright © 2008-2024