by D.J. Rouse
D.J. Rouse is a shadowy figure who cuts a silhouette of finely tuned emotion, sometimes bluntly, violently so. This persona sometimes says what I certainly fail to in everyday life. This persona is not me. That is all I know.
Without sounding too melodramatic :
Every fiber of my being is awaiting that moment with a criminal lust,
My arms are empty and they ache for you,
Such a fierce intensive passion I suppose should be restrained,
Or rationed in a way similar to the one being enforced on me,
Memories are rapists that tip toe up behind me and grab me by the throat,
Softly split my jaded, nicotine tinged skin with a deft flick,
And force feed me serotonin only to laugh in my face at the very second they reveal their placebo.
How crafty and indulging they are.
Uncertainty is a cross I’ve come to know and fear and hate and return to,
Seven days a week minus only the brief flirtation with trust and abandonment I get when inside you,
Shapes a man, creates a different one and destroys a probable king,
For in this winter I am nothing but a distorted serial number on the back of a faded teen magazine,
Shoved under the semen crusted sheets in the bed of a prison inmate,
Still close enough to remain conscious, removed enough to be of no consequence,
I’m ultimately nostalgia wrapped in cling film only to be touched wearing marigolds.
I despise yet accept myself, see the holes where I have disappeared into,
Yet have no idea of how to summon the strength necessary to begin the ascension,
I have always been weak enough to assume a princess worthy enough of me,
Dedicated enough, resilient enough would armor me with the ladder out of my pit,
That through some act of love and safety I would be propelled from here into an oasis of calm and serenity,
Such pitiful excuses repulse the repulser, they do nothing but bury guilt beneath the patio,
Next to the torn skeletal remains of the last failed endeavour,
I believe she is still screaming at me, cursing me, I believe because of my eternal need to be relevant,
I’d rather be hated than forgotten,
It is this outstanding egocentricity that makes me unfit to be a man,
Yet – it would seem I still am.
I still wake to find the hair at the tip of my nose outgrowing me.