If I rhyme,
Maybe you would find my words beautiful,
Finding something profoundly disturbing more chewable,
Washed down with wine and cuticle,
Your fingernails scraping down my throat
I don't need that ****.
Maybe you would find my words beautiful.
But **** and disjunct, sitting, freely thinking
I feel as though my train of thought has retrained it's tracks
Let's go to a place I don't want to go to.
*****, wipe, *****.
Wipe your mouth, get up.
It's getting to feel tedious baby,
The conversational tone,
The space outside my brain.
I'm long familiar here,
The floor greets me
Like an old friend.
Like it doesn't hurt.
I stumble, and fall
As the blood escapes my skull
I mourn all the good *****
That I'm losing
And the headache
Unites me with the galaxy through the tile
And from this point of view
Things are looking up
And oh, God! the *****
— The End —