all wooden, all repetitive nature, all shadow-burnt eyelids
me and myself and everything else that makes up sadness
obsessions and repercussions and empty rhymes
nothing that should make you want to plant your feet on the floor
and demand some sort of compromise
dust swirls around this poetic frame, hugging it taut, embracing it cruel,
and i am the picture of polished apathy that glitters under the glass
lifting heavy breaths
and demanding a compromise
between me and my self-taught accusations.