Rothko and Black no.2

"Alack, I have NO EYES"

My breath got caught
I moaned it was heard by them all

To my professor who read those lines
a little too well.

Couldn't stay still, could not hold back
from scratching out my very own.

Pulled out some paper,
grabbed chalk outta my pocket, broke it in half.

SCRIBBLE,
SCRATCH.

It was not enough,
my friend, it was NOT ENOUGH.

I HAD TO DO SOMETHING MORE,
and so I began tearing the paper itself,

scrunching it with both my hands,
flattening it again, to crease where I began.

Yes, that was the day I could not turn back.

Ever since,

I scribble, day comes night, I cannot stop,
while doing so I MOAN,
a low sound grumbles from out my gut; in my sight, dry oceans become sore.

When night came,
layerings of primeless tarp pulled me through a spiral staircase into my core,
thick curtains dug under my throat,
drew out the flesh-thickened floor.

I SWEAR I SAW ROTHKO, HE TORE OUT HIS EYES.

This idea of entombment, an OBSESSION,
this torture of the self, this REPRESSION, A SUPPRESSIVE ENCAPSULATION.

I think he got caught as well,
DAY AND NIGHT HE WANED INTO BLACK,
lest art,
IN SINGULARITY, AN OBSESSIVE COMPULSION.

My soul is drowning on plaque, I'm screaming for help,
but I don't WANT to go back.

A cavernous hole in my chest
which I don't understand.

It's OUT OF MY HANDS.

A DEATH OF THE SELF, I'M VOIDED AND BLACK.

I NEED TO SCRATCH,
I NEED TO SCRATCH,
it won't make sense to anybody ELSE.

But god does not remain dead,
IN DOING SO I'LL CONDEMN MYSELF INSTEAD.

Don't try to reason with me,
IT'S OUT OF MY HANDS,
IT'S OUT OF MY HANDS.