Tabula Rasa

I want to be void of feeling.
I want to be plastic and posable,
to answer insipidly and without inflection of tone,
emotion, or interest.
I want to gloss expression from my eyes and walk without
distinction,
to think nothing of any thing or any one
person.

I want to do nothing and feel
nothing and be nothing, to rip savagely from
my body every cathartic
feeling that now floods and suffocates: drowns.
I want these sentiments like pains to leave new, better
pains of emptiness.

I want my heart to be a permanent tabula rasa,
a cold stone with a character carved by the wind,
none of these affections dimpling my shell or smoothing
rough corners.
Better barren to live than dying through fruitless poisoned blossoms.