Sometimes inspiration for the most obscure forms of prose can strike you in a moment of vulnerability. In those moments, when you’re merely lying on your preferred side waiting for sleep to take you, the words reveal themselves to you against the blackness of your mind. You pull out your phone and open the app to tap away what rolls past the backs of your eyes like credits on a screen.
Herein lies the result of one such moment.
Ailments of the Heart
Within the cavernous
Reaches of ourselves
Lies there a solitary beast
That shudders
And shakes
To that which occurs just beyond its cage.
Though life pours
From its own suffering,
In its eternal trembling
Pain blooms like flowers in the spring
Radiating out
Touching everything.
How can an organ numb
To its neverending grind
Be so touched
By that which carries no weight?
Skarface 