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The Beat of the Drum

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Patricia Arriaga-Rivera, Op-Ed Editor

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Betrayal and disgust engulfed my thinking as I tried to write about love

my fingers went numb one by one

my thoughts came to a stop

I could not write on love

I was destined to write of mental wars and bloodshot eyes from sleepless nights

I write about things that’ll plague you

actions that could kill you

words that’ll in sick ways thrill you

My hands are shaking, head hurting, eyes burning, I’m tired yet I can’t sleep.

I feel filthy but I’m clean

My mind’s a catastrophe

the tick tocks of broken clocks are ringing

I can hear the schizophrenic girl singing

her eyes are pure as snow and words melodies to this world

until you were to call her insane

she’d often lash out on those who felt the same

messed up and stuck on rewind, a waste of space to humankind

bound to a place with nurses and syringes

hard beds and stitches

marked faces and hearts

we were all filled with incoherent thoughts

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