The SCREAM-O Waltz by Jai’Nica Collins

These words were written in his red blood.

Laid upon the black pages of my sin,
Gutted with unbearable sadness, and regurgitated with abdominal sickness

Stained with the compost of your bowels,

Retaining its deadly effects over and over again,

Spiraling towards the hunger panged womb.

Woe tis’ so dismal,

A timeless watch stabbing one’s ticking soul.

Masquerade balls of interior,

Exterior boisterous in its matrimony,

Covered with gore,

Severed pieces split with pricey cartels,

Strangled with diabolical semantics,

Drowned with antics of nostalgia,

Formed within an intimate bed of epiphanies,

Hidden underneath your gourd of fruitful multiplication,

Convoluted lovers potent with secretions,

Dancing in Latin floorboards of unethical doings,

Beyond the will of your wildest dream,

Abdominal songs played in colored tunes,

Clenched between the teeth of your prancing,

Bubbled over with animosity;

In dire need of sensual touching,

Domestic acrylic, lamented with scorn.

Summon my old faithful,

Armed for armors of a breathing cauldron,

Brewing stones of speech impediments;

Caressed by cascading birth,

Brunette fiddles played on a string quartet.

Crocheted eardrums prohibiting sound from making its entrance.

Amplified by heavenly kisses,

Putrid flowers beds of, “I see dead people.”

Apocalyptic beings deceived in lustful eye appeals,

Doused in ice capades;

Love stories of Titanic,

Yellow-eyed bull bellies,

Vibrate sound rooms with opaque objects.

Wedding bells chimed grace and mercy to follow,

And it bellowed with ancient gongs of shelter,

Painting brass colored faces,

Infected with wring worms;

Docile coveted remnants of dirt.

Sand dunes swallowing brunch in patriotic wind wisp.

Gullible we are to this so called façade of sanctity,

If senses shall be in greater satisfaction,


A simple mellow note with rapid movement,

Causing diffusion to explode;

Brain contusions, soothing to the abusive,

Yet, dangerous to feeble minds

Rock-a-bye babies on tree tops,

That all fall down…ashes, stuffed with posies

Avid speakers,

But, their lives are on auto-tune,

Amplified with diction,

But, disgust through the crevasses of their tendons,


Self-pumped blood,

In rooms filled with crushed dishes…starvation.

Beeeeeep it’s pending, but, not a soul is listening.