Sanity the Staple

Sat, 04/02/2016 - 01:15 -- bwinner

Day One:

Through my mind, thoughts race

Am I to survive

The deserted island I must face?

Necessities, staples, necessities, for which I strive,

Repeat in my mind while I pace

Food and water are vital to staying alive

So scurrying rodents I anxiously chase

Yet my efforts are in vain—I take five

A pouch full of babbling brook I tie up with shoelace

I strike gold! That is, golden onion chive

Grinding the vegetation in my teeth, I think, This survival thing I’ll never ace

Not even to thrive—if only to stay alive

 

Day Two:

I awake from a nightmarish sleep

Trembling out of both terror and chill

My quivering body resembles that of a nervous sheep

Fire, I realize, is how I can transform this unforgiving isle into a City upon a Hill

So I manage an ember but am quickly reminded of a fire’s upkeep

Expensive, I mutter to myself as I expend far too much time and far too much will

Expensive, a fire’s upkeep is indeed

But it is worth the labor, however shrill

For with it I can boil water—clean water to keep

Or roast shellfish, clams, or any other kill

Even so, lonely I find myself and begin to weep

Even with my necessities, I can hardly sit still

 

Day Three:

I gather materials to craft a makeshift shelter

Logs, sticks, palm fronds, and branches

I struggle to create a sturdy structure

That can withstand the gusty blows, the wind’s piercing scratches

The clouds roll in like cotton candy but bear the color of something saltier

I rush and rush to create a cover of thatches

And a water-capturing system from which to drink—the stratosphere will be my filter

I curl within my shelter and dream with shuttering lashes

Nightmares I dream, as I begin to swelter

My mind drifts to life back at home, to my memory caches

Yet my brain plays tricks, and my sense of reality becomes faultier

Solitude, I tell you, disrupts one’s mental latches

 

Day Fifty:

Awake, food, water, food, water, fire, asleep

Boy, I miss others’ voices

I labor tirelessly through this arduous routine

Enhancing my survival skills, broadening my food choices

But from my yearning to desert desertedness, I have hardly been weaned

You see, I am repulsed by my own voice

For my only friend—usually—is my own tongue, I ween

But every once in a while I am a lucky boy

As a friend or two whispers to me

But I am not quick enough to catch those who in my ear make noise

Keep this a secret, will you?  Between you and me?

These voices, I assure you, are nothing more than games or toys

 

Day One Hundred:

Home is where the heart is

I love home, I miss home

All I do is eat, sleep, whizz

No-one to talk to and no-one to comb

Not like at home, that is

Not where I, with my pals, would roam

You see, my companions here on this isle somehow slip away into an abyss

Whenever I jerk my head to catch those voices so reminiscent of home

The people from home are those whom I truly miss

God, I hope they haven’t made it to the tomb

Or is it that the people from home are those whom I truly whizz?

Hahahgagaga—whizz, I say, whizz!  My mouth collects foam

 

Day Three Hundred Sixty-Five:

To the cliffs, they whis-whis-whisper into my rear, into my fear, into my ear

I have yet to—have yet to catch one of them

But they never fail to make me hear, to make quite clear

I obey them as a fool submits to his king, his sire, his diadem

Yes, their commands compel me to utter with sheer fear

These voices contain me, bottle me up, as though as-though-as-though I’m their gem

I am their subject—that’s fear, that’s tear, that’s ca-ca-clear

Forced to the cliffs, I tensely choke on my phlegm

Before the ground’s end, under the beating sun, my thick skin sears

Is this my departure, my demise, my end?

If so, I cry cheers, before leaping from this crag, cheers, cheers, cheers!

They yell, they shout, and so my legs take me and take me till they can take me no more—myself I bring to an end

 

Day One:

I awake from a terrible dream

One of survival choices, voices, and death the culmination

But from this dream I uncovered one key theme

That I grasped after much rumination:

It might seem at first that the culprit of my demise was solitude, which caused me to daydream

But I must remind you that even if that was my death’s causation,

The rules of this game are clear, so don’t look so smug like the cat that got the cream

You are trapped on a deserted island, my friend—shall I remind you of the word’s definition?

Empty of people, so no…you cannot bring a person, let alone a team

Since to bring other people would circumvent the circumstances: it cannot be a solution

So we are left with only one answer to your proposed question—it is sanity, the one thing you can’t live without, you see

After all, was it not insanity that drove me to my own termination?

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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