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Bomb In C Minor

There's a minefield set inside my head
Any little push and I think we're all dead
The barrel is loaded through my twisted neurology
Which social miasmas set in motion the trigger
Leading tainted endearments that lead me to linger
A hyacinth aborted, in the killing fields bloomed
caution were you tread, or this roman candle will yield

There's a bomb playing c minor, it's my schizoid sonata
Cracked coronets pick away my head with an axe
The violins scratch impressions on mahogany lines
While the Spanish guitar paints me to a far away time
And nobody hears the pressure point crescendo to the drums
as the bomb goes off for session number 1

Everyday is navigated combating a barbed wire planet
For eyes and subtle sneers, firing the shot penetrating fear
Wounds fragrant the body and make a casualty worn
Without notice to recoil the shrapnel lodges your thoughts
And every scar to the insults engineers a damaged mind
Leaving you on guard from your friends and your foes
Your never really sure, if their just exchanging roles

For every move in public view,
Exposes you to the gunman's cue
Get a role with Madam Guillotine
When you slip up on your tongue, in an open dialogue
And its blind date with a scaffold,
if you expose your heart to wolves in the sheets
Your maggot buffet if you don't have the resolve
Of a good poker face, under duress of public charge

Wisdom from the sludge has taught me how to run
To hide from the snipers who smile to brazenly
Sincerity is cosmetic, every emotion is synthetic
Every word is a code with an ulterior motive
Intimacy is segregated only a shield keeps me safe
Attachment is exposure to Greek barren gifts
Let them in and you receive a poison ivy handshake

Becoming a veteran at the age of adolescents
In a waiting room, reiterating old terror hit songs
Perpetual cycle of the dark thoughts of yester year
Brings poison to dreams of the things of today
Fear than blooms of ashes from future surprises
And everyday feels like a fly in a spider's web
Under the spotlight for the monsters teeth marks

There's a bomb in C minor, its singings as soft as lilac burns
There is a drum beating slowly with a disconnected cadence
And a viola that screaming with curling punctuation
Down funneling acoustics of improvising navigation
Mismatched Fugue imbedded rhythm tic chop soy
Every melody is detonating with precision replay
Askew to the wardrobe of my introverted delay

When amusement is heard I want to crawl to the rock
It's a packaged with allusions that entail cruel liaisons
Voices are poltergeist, the air becomes spoiled
With apprehension to phantom malefactor contortions
It's too late now; I've been contaminated by cohorts
Transmitted the key to my infectious anomie
Misery is educational, for intelligent survival
It's brought about this lesson of life's grand design:

Depression is a carousel of unwilling passengers
Spinning in a cycle of descending regrets
You're born to get on, and you die to get off
It's the only attraction you try not to ride
You either learn to flow with it or you just jump off it
Each way you transverse, the direction's always down
So if you attempt to vacate all you prove is that your beat
Chewed out for the lineup, and someone else will take your seat

There's a bomb playing c minor, it's my schizoid sonata
French horns attack with a sound full death mask
There's a flute playing softly as the rain hits my eye
And cello on a solo, that's softly springs a distant cry
Peaking at the moment of the pressure point crescendo
Drums explode, and crack the surface, of my rage know one noticed

Classrooms and offices are loaded with adversaries
It's hard to see the sunshine, when everyone's a grey cloud
I have a Boy Scout morality, that's euthanized by reality
Organized by small whispers, subtle glances are finality
There's away to escape from the shellshock glares
But the cure I have made is a shrapnel lodged dare
And quick fix from me will sting those around me

It's hard to smell the aroma of thinking multilaterally
When I'm juggling grenades on a rug that is being pulled
Every time I wear a face that beats me up before I fold
If only lies were innate, I could be a good contender
Exquisite with honours, to bury the fender benders
Instead I build from inertia rolling faster with rigor
Ticking perspiration for the crescendo of the trigger

Listen now I hear a tune that's painted softly cobalt blue
It's a soloist counting down the number of a thunder detonator
Low in key but high under the pressure pitch of the hangman's incinerator
Ticking tiptoe like a desperate ballerina on a tightrope line
That's getting thinner when swerves to avoid the lions pride
The symphony explodes the world has decomposed
And nothings left but sound to trace the vacancy of time
Its a bomb in C minor, my schzoid sonata

poem by Kevin Patrick
Added by Poetry Lover
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