Being a listener is bad.
Listeners give the heart they're denied for disposable feelings.
I'm an emotional dustbin.

I could escape,
when I was alive,
to calm this second hand hurt.

But now I've been recorded,
flicked on when another damn pilot has helped commit his own genocide
as if a holographic ear could soothe his suicidal rage.

And all this passed on pain
is walling off my sanity.

I'm just switched off,
no time between,
no peace,
no life.

This poem was dropped from later versions of Hymnen.

image: poem



this archive is hosted by arts & ego
© 1978-2024 dylan harris