2.21.15

The world is fake. An empty play dough world where all our heads are in clouds of derealization. We’ve lost our touch with reality running razors across our bellies. Our mind a shaking bath tub full of water and bubbles. Tap it. Ripple. Splash it. Wave. Shake in it. You’re gone in the tsunami Of bubbles over the side. You disrupted the peace. Now you’re cold among all the popping bubbles. You made the world a trembling earthquake of pain. And it will not have your bullshit. You are books left alone on the library tables. Scattered. Disorganized. You are a mess. You are frowned upon. Nobody’s going to pick you up. Well not until someone who under stands the code on your spinal cord and can handle you like a problem, when you want to be opened. And your pages caressed and your tears and rips cried over like they should be. Have someone finger your creased pages as they read the heart breaking parts. But they put you back in your a slot. Where you “belong.” And you sit there silently screaming “learn me"

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