Spoken Word Surgery

These are the people who spit words onto your face.

At times, they may not see your face

in the darkness.

They slowly dissect your chest

with their rhythmic tones:

each change of amplitude cuts into new layers of muscles.

They do not stop until your heart is palpable and beating

in their hands.

They are surgeons.

They are poets.

They try to bandage your sorrow

with casts of well-written, lyrical words.

You listen to the rhythmic dynamics of their vocal chords as they slip

under your skin and through thick layers of deafening fat.

Maybe we all are terribly disturbed surgeons

who choke on our own words:

words that were meant to heal -

words that we spit into the empty souls of others

that only demonize them further.

Maybe we are poets who tremble at the sight of human flesh, 

of humanity.

We inject dosages of empty promises

into a sickened society.

We bandage lies with wishful thinking.

Our egocentric selves refuse to look at others

through our own casted blanket of darkness.

We are the darkness,

who wear façades of humanitarianism,

who wait for our evils to spawn at night.

We hungrily watch night approach

like the closing of a coffin lid.

We are all the cannibals who disable each other

with our words and directionless desire to heal.

We are surgeons.

We are poets.