My mind is mush as I lay on my bed while my laptop screams at me as YouTube videos drown out my loneliness.

the alphabet soup

Letters that try to form words (which always seem to want to go against me when they swim around my mind) are getting drowned out by the videos that are still beating on and on like drums practising before their first-ever band concert.

My stomach floats up and down, wanting to float away while hoping my outer skin would look flatter.

Scars still litter my skin, but predominately my thighs, stretching whenever I move and lay down. The fresher ones cry out during the mist of the day. They beg for fresher cuts as if they’re growing fruits and vegetables while the sun glistens in the light blue skies.

My skin wants to feel itself breaking apart as if it’s dying in a ditch, as it’ll bleed out, crying like it dances in the rain after finding out they would never be the same again.

the alphabet soup

The rain falls, pittering and pattering on the rooftops.

My thighs still itch from the redding scars. What if they’re infected? Is it normal for my scars to itch so much?

My mind is mush as I lay on my bed while my laptop screams at me as YouTube videos drown out my loneliness.

My body is drowning in acid while I scream like a dying calf in the forest.

I can’t breathe, but I don’t know if I want to.

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You should do it.

You shouldn’t do it.

You should do it.

You shouldn’t do it.

Why can’t you make up your mind?

Rain has been crumbling

inside my home for three

and a half weeks,

wanting to know

every inch

of it as if they were hired

to renovate the early 1800s home.

“Sorry for the mess,” I say

as The Endless Well walks in

with a slightly crooked smile.

“No worries,” she says

as she takes off her shoes,

then walks in

as if dead roaches

scattered around the entryway.

The house is nearly empty.

The clock ticks and tocks

on the wall. My mind

is surprisingly clean.

The Endless Well sits on the black leather couch.

You should change the trajectory of your career.

You should begin working on the short story collection.

Maybe you’re doing

something

wrong in your career.

You should change the genre of your podcast.

You should stack your schedule.

How about starting a new poetry collection?

You should quickly release a series.

The Endless Well spits

out her words like

a poisonous snake

sinking its teeth

into the ankle

of an unsuspecting adult

sitting in the sand

as they stare into the distance.

Then she leaves.

You should do it.

You shouldn’t do it.

You should do it.

You shouldn’t do it.

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Whenever the words are etched

onto the empty pages,

there’s the tiniest

voice at the back of my head, whispering,

This is not good enough.

This isn’t good enough.

When the words sneak

into my mind like a snail

in the rain during Fall,

it beats me

similar to a boxer in the ring

as there are occasional

flashing lights from the crowd

that’s on the edge of their seats.

You are not good enough.

It only comes every once in a while,

echoing

like crows or rosters

at 6 in the morning.

You are not good enough.

You should quit.

Why are you still writing?

You will never be successful.

You should quit.

Who would read your grey-tinted words?

You’re not good enough.

When will your writing ever

dance on the rooftop, glittering

with diamonds and rainbows

as the mouth threw up

the galaxy with illuminating stars?

Your writing will never be good enough.

You will never be good enough.

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In this episode, you're introduced to the host, Eloise Thompson, who is played by Angel-Clare Linton, a poet, writer, editor, and publisher who is also the founder of Spray Paint Magazine (https://lintonpress.ca/spraypaintmagazine).

Music - https://pixabay.com/fr/music/prendre-au-piege-rap-beats-music-161432/

Do you want to read poetry? Please visit thespraycan.blog.

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It flies in the beauty of the daylight.

Its wings push the hot air

around it as it leaps

and nearly crashes into the lavenders.

The wings are white, desperate

not to be stained

by this grey

darkness that follows them.

The grey darkness always

lingers a step or two behind it

as it hides in its own darkness.

The butterfly tries to cry out,

but its mouth is stitched shut with black ink.

The butterfly.

Its wings flap around,

carrying the butterfly

across the province

as it's desperate

for an escape. Maybe

this little getaway will make things all better.

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I can’t breathe.

My words are caught

in my throat

as they try

to crawl out as if trapped

in one of the raging waterfalls found in Canada.

I can’t breathe.

I don’t wanna be here,

surrounded by people

who consume me in a wave, desperate

to suffocate me while their

dark grey words

s 

e 

e 

p

out from their pink lips and stab my body.

Maybe I don’t wanna breathe.

The air that’s pumping into my lungs is strained.

The blood moving

throughout my body desperately

wants to escape like someone trapped

in an “impossible” escape room

while the air is thinning

and the person’s panicking.

People want me to breathe.

Sometimes, when the people

who were throwing dark grey words

laced with poison

at you find out that you’ve tried

to kill yourself, their words are suddenly

coated in pink and red, seemingly desperate

to keep you alive.

They now throw themselves at you

as if you were an actress

in a well-known television show

that now, for some

reason, has to go to public school.

I don’t want to breathe anymore.

Life wants to strangle me

while looking at me.

Its piercing black eyes

would bore holes into mines.

Its eyes are seemingly

an endless pit, ready

to suck me in but never

spitting me out.

I can’t breathe.

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has always been my first love. Yet, like the hot red fire (except with its own red pizzaz) has burned me, consuming me in its flames and hugging me as if it wanted to be my mother. Correction: As if wanting to replace my mother, who sits in the house, writing stories of her own, getting lost in the world she created on the once blank pages.

has always danced in my mind, desperate to leak onto the empty pages. Sometimes, though, poetry makes me squeeze itself out like a young boy squeezing his teddy bear in the middle of the night as he lies in his bed because he’s afraid of the monster that might sit in his closet or lie under that very same bed. Those are the days when I think I have lost my ability to write, like a bicycle losing its front wheel.

has always been there, ready for me to pour my blueness into it like water pouring itself into a bowl.

cries and whimpers like a lost dog on the streets whenever tears drop from my face as I think, Why can’t my poetry work? and Maybe I should quit writing.

has always imprinted itself in my brain like a photograph ingrained in an SD card.

is...

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It flies in the beauty of the daylight.

Its wings push the hot air

around it as it leaps

and nearly crashes into the lavenders.

The wings are white, desperate

not to be stained

by this grey

darkness that follows them.

The grey darkness always

lingers a step or two behind it

as it hides in its own darkness.

The butterfly tries to cry out,

but its mouth is stitched shut with black ink.

The butterfly.

Its wings flap around,

carrying the butterfly

across the province

as it’s desperate

for an escape. Maybe

this little getaway will make things all better.

Support this podcast at — https://redcircle.com/the-spray-can/donations

Advertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brands

Privacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy

It has always whispered in my ears,

singing love songs coated in pink daisies

as the rainbow sings at night.

Poetry has always craved my touch,

and it would cry like a hungry baby

whenever I’m forced

to shift my eyes to something else for a moment

because it’s afraid

that I would fall in love with that thing.

Poetry has always been dancing in the sky,

painting, and creating oceans

from the grain of salt hidden in a crystalized cave.

“I would never leave you,”

Poetry whispers as I cry into my pillow

in the middle of the night

as the stars whisper

to the moon as those very same stars

dance and sparkle in the night’s darkness.

Poetry has always been my first love.

It has been there

whenever I crave the touch

of someone sitting in the same room as me

as they listen with a blank stare

as I would be on the brink of crying

because life apparently loves

to throw toxic bullets at me

in the middle of the day

as somehow the stars still shimmer.

Poetry has always been there,

sitting in most of my brain, desperate

to be heard.

ABOUT THE POET

Angel-Clare Linton is a poet, writer, editor, and publisher. She is also the founder of Spray Paint Magazine.

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My Skin & Touch

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