Rap

“Enter rage disguised as boredom.
 
 I refuse to be. I am neither being nor weather. I pretend to be, either ghost or feather. I turn out to be but a quill untethered.
 These ancient walls beneath my chest are scarred with stars, hugging heartbeats like prison bars. Yet whose heart-stars will align with mine? Whose heart-chains does my key unwind? Or will love be, ultimately undefined?
 I contemplate invisible instruments and listen to their tunes. And inspiration’s not a river; it’s a million reddish flumes. So breathe in and out the letters, as the harp of chaos croons.
 I rest upon the headboard, still. I rest upon this vacant will. I rest upon the memory, the memory of a silent thrill.
 This is not an artistic attempt. This is my unburdened contempt. This is me kempt and unkempt.
 All of it is mostly a story of degradation, with multiple chapters of devastation. But it’s, really, only, just a moment, a moment of love and inspiration.
 So take not these words for they are not memorable. Take no underlying logic, take no interpretation for none are venerable. Just take care of your heart, for its value’s immeasurable.
 Yet while the illusion of time sets the tempo to this fable, I beg you not to wholly drown in the label. Resolve the myocardial paradox instead, part stable, part unstable.
 It is but a game of heart and fate, tender love and self-destructive hate. Three, two, one…You get the answer but it’s just too late. No it’s not, believe and wait.
 This is not a tale of broken dreams. This is not whatever your judgment deems. O timeless clichés, is nothing ever as it seems?
 Be it her photograph under your pillow, a dying and colorlessly weeping willow or however the grand paradox swells and billows, keep your heart in the picture, your eyes on the juncture and your hands on the cello.
 And be it the angel of night that awakens at dawn, be it the inner painting or the hell of a mess you’ve drawn, the next checkmate, I promise, is artist-to-con.
 Life is not a caterpillar. Life is not a butterfly. Life is faith finding and founding your pillar. Life is that child you silence as he asks: Why? Why? Why?
 Life is a metaphor. Life is a pattern. Life is the people you’d die for. Life is darkness beating against your beating lantern.
 Life is the play you cannot delay. It’s who you are beneath the masks. It’s you, the train and the tracks. Are you jumping in, out or are you bruised and bloodied in cracks?
 Angels and demons — respect and betrayal. Here’s a reminder, broken, old and pale: “Please, please do not fail.”
 It’s been a long time. It’s been there time after time after time. But it seems now that I’ve found a new rhyme.
 So here’s to the past that died, and to where future mysteries hide.
 Here’s to the moments that set you free. Here’s to the heart that floods the sea.
 Here’s to you. Here’s to me. Here is everything separately.
 
 And here now is the final ‘here’ breaking that old untethered quill into a confusing half-heart-shaped key.
 Here, right here, was my eternal vow. But it is finally broken now.
 The curtain closes on boredom disguised as rage.
 
 The curtain closed.
 
 It’s time you leave the stage.”