the golden touch lies underwood (part iii.)
by Thomas Rowe
ALL THOSE NUMBERS MUST ADD UP
How many times do you find yourself listening to everyword?// How many times do you find yourself watching every move?// How many times do you find yourself counting all the clones?// How many times do you find yourself?// How many times do you find yourself searching yourself??
space travels in my head and for a space cadet that can be good, for a space captain definitely. maybe not. who call’s it that anyways. maybe it is in the name, maybe it’s in the rhyme.
no space in my head for yous, no time for you. barely anytime for me.
only time for you.
wandering in a place of shame within a place of wander. no fear, just as. so don’t wait for me, ‘cause nobody is listening anyways.
sucker for cookies and lemonade.
!truth disappears with history and gossip!
you killed your mother with a kitchen knife because your brother got all the attention. tall, blonde, blue-eyed - you and your brother both dark. you were the smart one, the one who brought in the bread. yet you were neglected, so expected, so the knife came down pretty hard. and without regret it was just partial insanity. your dark haired brother saw it too, he knew when something was wrong.
he was sad too.
but you were both so logical, so reasonable, so liked by writers, artists, musicians. perhaps they related, perhaps you were shamed. alcohol and depression: calm and controlled and insane. so take me away, you knew you had to go and always return.
so i think this is how it goes: he got you pregnant. he got you pregnant and walked away or you had a death of your own. friends talked you down from the bridge and family took you in to find something to live for.
well let’s all be a slave.
you watched the family, a family, the family you cared for. their child was perfect. you envied them, planned it all out. the nanny went for eggs; you took care of the child. right to the kitchen, right for a knife, right to the bedroom, right for the head.
bucket in place to catch the pour.
you realized your guilt, you realized your consequence. put the head on the window, put the body on the sill and show the world your guilt. because you are.
but why so murdersome, so savage. no emotion, no regret, no motive? yet it was the thought of the awareness of your actions with no moral obligation.
you just had to do it.
i’ve felt that way before, i just had to do it. something tells you then you tell yourself, it must be done. do it, but don’t do it - if you wouldn’t like it done to yourself… overrated when the horror is already said and done.
partial insanity, or is that just forgiveness? feel shame. be punished. it was probably what you wanted all along, to feel something. but on all account, trying to feel something just doesn’t seem to work.
well they say that sometimes murder is a derivative of suicide.
wishing your life away, trying to take your life away by ultimately taking another’s life away. all in order for someone to take yours. good riddance and goodnight.