The Incineration of the Obscuration
By Allan  Ramirez



I can’t write anymore.
My heart is too sore.
I can no longer endure this emotional pain.
These nonstop feelings of torture I can’t restrain.
These unstable hands can no longer create.
This black hole of a heart can no longer direct.


Mother Nature’s blazing cold of discomfort is on the outside.
Hell’s own smoldering blizzard of emptiness is on the inside.
There’s not an exit to this sinister dark pit of indefinite torment.
Just a game board to this twisted game of self-caused resentment.
I reach the space of cloud nine where I’m finally not frowning,
but then it’s back to the dark space where my soul is drowning.


It feels like I’m hypnotized every second, every day,
and something is corrupting my thoughts, planning to stay.
I try to take control of it but I keep failing.
I keep hurting the ones I love without bailing.
The sword goes in deeper into my already wounded heart and brain,
knowing I did not intend for any of it and I’m going insane.


I zig-zag past everyone’s chit chat in the crowded hall,
hastening in order to dodge them trying not to stall.
All these years spent alone, I couldn’t accept the irritation of desolation.
I would constantly want to be part of a random conversation.
Still unaccompanied, I now realize I must be in absolute isolation.
Away from civilization, my self-spoken conversations end up in complete negation.


“That’s it! I need to wake up from it”, I tell my self.
“No, there’s no point”, I contradict my self.
Every day, the same notion comes back with a haunting tease.
This devastating dominant affliction will never seem to ease.
How it was created and released is still unknown.
In my prophecy, the way to end it is not shown.


I can no longer endure this emotional pain.
These nonstop feelings of torture I can’t restrain.
There’s no where to run and no one to turn to.
There’s nothing to say and nothing to do.
For now, I’ll let my un-recovering heart do all the talking,


and my unstable hands do all the writing.