Laugh Hard as your Right Hand Strangles the Left

WHAT KIND OF GOD? By Jon Stalk...

“What do you see when you look out at the...

Written by casey horner

Sunday, 08 June 2008

We are only bitten by the snakes of our own burdens

when we let them enter,

then lock them in.

They start at the heart

Using the veins and nerves as highways of uncontrolled poison

The poison of a thought,

The poison of a memory

The poison of the time between.

And no one ever seems to notice the hands,

flailing and throbbing

We thought it was a dance,

but they were dying for art.

We used them punish other beings, strong and weak

Weapons of uncontrollable, and unsettled fears and anger.

Used to prove something we can't even prove to ourselves.

That bad hands are doing the creating in our minds everyday.

I would much rather remember my hands creating rather than striking

Creating is the drug the man you see sleeping in the gutter always wanted.

These hands can create words, images, melodies and dances,

Renaissances, Love, nourishment and God.

And mine have created the antivenom to the snake that once raped my mind.

Last Updated ( Monday, 09 June 2008 )

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