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 *******.

   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"