my jewels bestowed onto me are hanging from my dead limbs like a noose,
but due to my inferior intellect, these delusional gods will bring me to hell's gates
for the world's stigma on my definition of jewels has a red stamp with
the words WARNING on it, my dull inane shadow cannot compare
to the hundreds suffering in the same recession i am, mouths are speaking
to me, but my ears aren't listening, like once the repeated record from you
plays, a sound proof room surrounds the vicinity and intrudes the space
between you and me, my body is not translucent, i was carved out of
marble but vines and weeds entangled my crevices and made me grotesque
this dystopia people are telling me about that i live in is a utopia to myself
i'm near the condition of declining into a whirlwind of nothing and i'm fine
with it, as long as Holden Caulfield catches me when I fall into the rye alone

- kra