withdrawn from our colour retreat to the basement with unillustrated lives fled reflush our pallor and flesh out lily liveried astray from the light scarce bottled mighty in our culture dish and reinvent look ** ; to the silverfish !
Why do all the bad things, The self harm, denial, and everything else, End up helping the most?
Edit: Ah Im almost crying becuase of how much love this poem has gotten and all of that in one day and this has never happened and thank you to everyonr.
They’re all fine on their own Maybe better off They all have each other Loved ones People who care But they can’t care for me Because they don’t know me And if they did They’d finally know I’m not one of them
The world is a waiting room where we wait for the end there is no ending to all the endings the reception desk is located near the exit in case of a fire while the doctors sit in the back arched over their notepads.
The waiting room is getting crowded as the mosh pit inside infects one another jockeying for position like horses racing to their stall.
The waiting room is getting hotter from clients with essential oils and patients with black lung the air conditioning works overtime eventually breaking leaving us overheating—suffocating.
Sitting, staring into space waiting in the flatline watching decay repay our waiting room ways the building starts crumbling like a glacier while we wait for its weight to fall upon us.