Modern Romanticism

Hell has invited me
when I crawl towards
its vacancy.

I’m no more
in touch with a reason
than the beautiful bud
will find a way
to flower.

I’m just against
the noise that sticks
to these walls that lift up
a certain frequency.

I’m crying for less
of those listening souls
to deter me
from mourning me.

They’re too often
ready to aid me,
when all I want
is the low tone.

I bring the belt down,
I bring my body
to swing in helplessness,
deprived of air,
deprived of anyone
who’ll stare.

They’ll come back
with the world to see,
when faces understand
there was nothing to save
for what I craved.