Free-Verse Hurting Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Maybe that is all for now,
My words outnumber me,
The plethora of the macabre
And the crestfallen

Has gotten into my system
Scraping the walls of my heart,
Bludgeoning my cranial stalls
And the pavement, the lonely pavement

In my mind where I spare my time in nostalgic suicide and lament,
Alone and desolate shall I be forever inside my own self
And the image the mirror spits in front of me,
I abhor the image, the image that sets itself on fire

Excuse me and my mishaps, child, I am not like you
Salvation seems to be under repair
And the mirage, with a condescending imposition
That I should be superimposed upon sewers that reek

And the pandemonium wreaks havoc in my mind.
What is in this deathlike hands,
That fuels me to write
Everything about my woes against

The adversaries of bliss
The paroxysmal blue scented descent
Spirals down the night, unlike any other nights
That have no closer ties to the moonlight

And the constellated azure that causes my dreams
To become stale and spoil in the depths of my sleep.
Is this free-verse writing?
No, this is free-verse hurting.