Experimental Poetry: A Stained Cortex

black and brown floral textile
Photo by Tim Mossholder on Pexels.com

Pick at an unhealing scab
Forget why I’m even mad
It’s just me and the fear
I’m a black sheep

Pulling the wool

Over my own


Such a perfect disguise
Yeah, right
The wolf is hungry; I feel its bite

From limb to limb

It carves my sin
So black can bleed into white
Me, the bloodstained prize

Who am I?

It’s hard to see yourself


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A clockwork heart
No longer remembering
My lines, my part
Act 3 starts
But the star’s lost his head
His heart
It’s just an empty scene
One already seen
Where’s the resolution
The audience screams
But it’s just me
Waiting to wake
From a neverending dream
My names not in lights
It’s carved in stone
Here lies the man
Who died