Poems by Chris Lord

The Walls

a poem by

Chris Lord

As the water comes down
and descends my mane
it does not wash away my pain
my pain remains
the liquid that was meant to renew
has done nothing to subdue
and breakthrough
the brick layers of my exterior
reinforced by the concrete walls of my interior
the torrential downpours
that rage and roar
inside of me
are hard to ignore
because they
knock, knock, knock
on the door
waiting for me to open the door
as they erode away within me
like the grand canyon
I have the colorado river raging through me
tearing apart my sanity
the raging river might travel down
and escape through my feet
as I run through the valleys
and over the mountain peaks
or up through my hands
as I right
even if all that is there to right on is sand
or escape through my lungs and nose
as I hyperventilate
my respiration speeds up
and my nose begins to whistle and blow
but never does it escape through my vocal cords and mouth
never do I scream and shout
tip over the tea pot
and pour it out
allow the steam subside
and let it to rise
and let the pressure cooker push open my mouth
unleashing such a clout
that would bust all of my teeth
and tear them out
that would knock some sense into me
and help me find
the things that I’ve been searching for
for such a long time
that in turn it might improve my time
that I might out race the river
that I may take down the walls piece by piece
before the river
from the inside out explodes
within me
THAT I MAY BECOME THE VICTOR

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