Cautionary visions visit in viciously vivid fashion
I'm dead and my head is missing
Everyone is laughing
And the sky is sorta dreary but I don't know
With no eyes you don't see too clearly
Sew me a new one on,
Attached at the neck
Plastic instead of brittle skin and maybe then
I can exist in some form above the normally gray and grim
I pray to a faceless facade
I made a "God" in my head
An eternal alternative to turn to and blame
And claim to strangers that he works in mysterious ways
My lips are chafed from singing unheard praises
I'm tasteless and it has me thinking that maybe my mouth was only a product of my imagination
Food for thought I chew and stop
Its too **** hot for contemplation
Still, I used to think my hands belonged to someone else
Right up until I used them both to **** myself
And try to light em underneath an ocean's worth of crude oil
That is forcing it's way into my lungs
My high hopes hung their heads in the past as they waited to be hanged
But now the concept of life felt empty and displayed itself as a delay
A casual lack of oxygen shut off all process in the brain
And we are on our way.
in the depths
And the darkness fades to grey,
**A less ambivalent shade.
Bad memories linger
In sour clouds of self pity
**Like farts of the mind
Didn't mean for this to turn out as a haiku but it totally did. Happy accidents.
Depression has become an insulin injection
A necessary evil
Only required because I have been underneath it's moon so long
Any other tide pull would surely drown me in confusion
I etched patterns into a tree with a pocket knife that had a red plastic handle
Indentions such as these never stay
Yet eternally we press against the world
Hoping to make a mark that will shine in the daylight and glow in the dark
I'm a shriveled slice of the Americana pie
With my soul on a swivel and the devil in my eyes
Life was a son of a ***** with fists that spat dirt when it spoke
And it ONLY screamed.
I'm somewhere between *David Duchovny and Stephen King
And I'm trying to rip up manuscripts that I didn't write and I don't know who did.
Goodnight America. My patterns will explain my existence more than I ever could.
Life is a melody
You can listen to only once.
The first thirty seconds, you find the groove,
A harmonious rhythm hereto unwritten
This could be your favorite.
For the next three minutes, you settle in.
The chorus comes around.
*You'll be here again.
It's fresh, it's catchy
You're enraptured by these certain pitches and the words rhyme perfectly.
One line flowing into the next, the ends justifying the means.
Another verse, another chorus. This one feels more weathered
Routine, maybe. You still feel that groove but your perspective of it has been altered by the change in tempo and direction during the last verse.
You realize you have fifteen seconds left.
This was your song. What did you do with it?
*As you think back, a gentle blanket of white noise embraces everything that ever was, and your song fades
Let me know how you feel.
Being interrupted by far off people making exceptionally loud sounds while trying to write poetry is exactly like having a horrible toothache and trying to perform a tracheotomy on a rabid cat.