maybe you’re 24 years old
but the clairvoyance of my mind
can read, in text,
the preoccupation of your own
filled with mad love,
materialistic inadequacies,
heartbreaks,
relationships,
the standard practice
to contemplating suicide,
stewing on the embitterment
of fleeting thoughts from
actions made by chief adversaries,
your appearance,
your attire,
your insecurities,
your petty grievances,
your suspicions of infidelity,
disillusioned to the poisons of life
and the fragments of clarity
the fog of quietus hasn’t quite
reached the imprisonment
of your own creation
and the blue jays of despair
haven’t came pecking on
the crumbs of your viability
you haven’t been through
enough ******* yet,
through and through,
to let that all go
the callow is seeping
out of your bone marrow
and written in scripture
on your 12 year old face