June 19, 2010
Serial Killer Love
by Mohammad Hijazi
They say they love me.
They might as well shoot me in the head
with their careless cheese cake covered guns.
Ironic as it may be,
they stand there for a short eternity
and watch
as I bleed drops of dark
cranberry-filled ungratefulness,
or at least
they would think I am ungrateful.
And still they love me,
off course they do;
un-humane love is what that is:
a canine-attacking-a-juicy-bloody-steak kind of love.
Dare they admit it?
They say denial is the first step
towards recovery,
recovery of despair.
Desperate
I am not.
over-zealous? Maybe.
over-emotional? Probably.
They say they love me,
on some tragic highly-twisted level
I know they do.
A butcher guards his bloody
knife, they love me
A serial killer hunts his thankless bastard
prey, they love me
A dictator mercilessly hanging the black
devils that blindly comply to his ungracious rulings, they love me
Oh
how they love me.
At least now I know
I am not standing here
on my own
bleeding out emotions
full of fake nothingness.
Transparent images reflecting on
the non-flat screen of my television
bring dazzling color to the heart stains
on the faded whiteness of my walls.
I know they love me,
acid raindrops of my affection sipping on foam
boards which conceal slaughtered bunnies, ponies and pink dolphins,
they love me.
But later
or sooner,
resentment threatens to be an oversight
dangling on the vines of my apathy
"Go ahead and throw your life away".
My life seems as clueless
as sugar-coated and gold-plated
as the queen of England,
but I will not burn inside
for giving the benefit of the doubt
to undeserving kings.
Shall I call it hypocrisy?
or is it too harsh?
will that hurt their diamond hearts
and platinum veins?
or shall I just retaliate with a smile?
a smile as oxygenated as lungs of the earth;
pretending seems a very logical approach.
I do have a very Mexican imagination,
but I do not want to end up with flying artichokes and talking tangerines.
They love me,
I have to face the non-alternative
non-country music
that lingers
towards its inevitable fate
under the moonlight of my earlobes.
I have to return this favor of marble love.
I have to be a serial killer.
© Mind Soup 2010. This post cannot be redistributed or republished in part or in whole via any means without the written approval of the author.
Serial Killer Love
To my friends and fans, As you might know, I have been working on poetry book for several months now. Today, I thought I would share with you a sneak peak from my unpublished mate…
To my friends and fans,
As you might know, I have been working on poetry book for several months now. Today, I thought I would share with you a sneak peak from my unpublished material.
My book is still untitled, but this poem is from a chapter entitled "Disappointments of me". I hope you enjoy it, and I would really appreciate your feedback.
Which reminds me, I am looking for a graphic designer to design the book. So if you are interested, click here for more information.
Serial Killer Love
by Mohammad Hijazi
They say they love me.
They might as well shoot me in the head
with their careless cheese cake covered guns.
Ironic as it may be,
they stand there for a short eternity
and watch
as I bleed drops of dark
cranberry-filled ungratefulness,
or at least
they would think I am ungrateful.
And still they love me,
off course they do;
un-humane love is what that is:
a canine-attacking-a-juicy-bloody-steak kind of love.
Dare they admit it?
They say denial is the first step
towards recovery,
recovery of despair.
Desperate
I am not.
over-zealous? Maybe.
over-emotional? Probably.
They say they love me,
on some tragic highly-twisted level
I know they do.
A butcher guards his bloody
knife, they love me
A serial killer hunts his thankless bastard
prey, they love me
A dictator mercilessly hanging the black
devils that blindly comply to his ungracious rulings, they love me
Oh
how they love me.
At least now I know
I am not standing here
on my own
bleeding out emotions
full of fake nothingness.
Transparent images reflecting on
the non-flat screen of my television
bring dazzling color to the heart stains
on the faded whiteness of my walls.
I know they love me,
acid raindrops of my affection sipping on foam
boards which conceal slaughtered bunnies, ponies and pink dolphins,
they love me.
But later
or sooner,
resentment threatens to be an oversight
dangling on the vines of my apathy
"Go ahead and throw your life away".
My life seems as clueless
as sugar-coated and gold-plated
as the queen of England,
but I will not burn inside
for giving the benefit of the doubt
to undeserving kings.
Shall I call it hypocrisy?
or is it too harsh?
will that hurt their diamond hearts
and platinum veins?
or shall I just retaliate with a smile?
a smile as oxygenated as lungs of the earth;
pretending seems a very logical approach.
I do have a very Mexican imagination,
but I do not want to end up with flying artichokes and talking tangerines.
They love me,
I have to face the non-alternative
non-country music
that lingers
towards its inevitable fate
under the moonlight of my earlobes.
I have to return this favor of marble love.
I have to be a serial killer.
© Mind Soup 2010. This post cannot be redistributed or republished in part or in whole via any means without the written approval of the author.
book
death
love
